


come find me

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nogitsune, POV Peter Hale, POV Second Person, Pining, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Slow Burn, Teacher Peter Hale, The Alpha Pack, Torture, Werewolves, past Deucalion/Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 36,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: “You want me,” he says, stubbornly sure and you consider him.“Yes,” you agree, because you are not a good man, and you are not accustomed to denying yourself what you want. “And it doesn’t matter because I am saying no.”You touch his hand, and he jerks, wide eyed as you lean into him, and breath into his ear. “If you still feel this way, come find me in ten years.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is because I wanted Steter with a strong Stiles & Derek friendship.  
> And because I read this post on Tumblr (that I can't find now and it's annoying me) and couldn't get the last line out of my Steter-centric head. So I took that line and this ship and shoved them together.  
> Hopefully you enjoy it. <3 
> 
> Updates will be once a week, hopefully? Hopefully.

It’s not surprising. 

You tell yourself you know it’s coming, and there’s an element of truth there, when you let yourself dwell on it--not that you let yourself dwell on it. 

He’s sixteen and beautiful, all pale skin and big whiskey brown eyes that follow you avidly for an hour a day, and catch on you, when you least expect it. He’s sixteen and a bright pink mouth that never seems to close, that curls in a smirk and argues and is always, always wet, always wrapped around his pen, nibbling on a hangnail, once wrapped around a red sucker that almost gave you a heart attack and his eyes were laughing as he watched you. 

He’s sixteen and every beautiful untouchable thing, because he is your student, a sophmore and you are going to hell, you tell yourself as you stroke yourself in the dark of your apartment, rough and fast, and close your eyes to see that hungry look in his eyes, the dazed stare when you turn from the chalk board and catch his gaze trained on your ass. 

You groan and come, remembering the flush high in his cheeks as he squirms, the way he pants on the lacrosse field and you feel sick because he’s fucking sixteen. 

He’s been watching you all year, and you are absurdly grateful that Derek is too angry to bring friends around, because of all people for your nephew to befriend, he latched onto Stiles fucking Stilinski and you don’t think you could handle him here, in your den, the scent of want and  _ him _ filling up the safe haven you’ve created. 

You want him here and you live in dread of Derek dragging him home. 

Still. You watch him watching you, and you know--even if you were not a werewolf, you would know, from the avid look that never wavers, by the way he ignores the clumsy flirting of pretty girls his age, by the way he lights up when you relent and engage in his brilliant, infuriating debates, what he wants. 

You think about it, in the privacy of your shower, think about the cloud of arousal that clings to him, and you are not a  _ good _ person, have never been anything more than selfish and narcissistic and thoughtlessly cruel, but you are not so low as to touch a sixteen year old boy, the best friend of your recently orphaned nephew, no matter how much you might want him. 

You don’t want to be in Beacon Hills. You wouldn’t be, if it were not for Derek, who lost everything--you couldn’t bring yourself to drag him away from the only home he’s ever known, not with only two years left of school. 

That’s how you found yourself here, at this school you once attended, teaching World History and caught by a infuriatingly gorgeous, clumsily sexy, sixteen year old boy. 

It’s impossible and you are careful, never allow yourself to be caught alone with him, not here, not in town, not ever in your home. 

And yet. There is this, now. Stiles, slipping into your empty classroom. 

The school is quiet as it always is on Friday, emptying quickly, even the teachers making a break for freedom, and you enjoy the quiet, use the empty hours when Derek will be occupied with lacrosse or Stiles or his part time job at the station--you try not to dwell on the absurdity of your nephew working for the Sheriff--to grade tests and prepare for the coming week, before you drive to a small Thai restaurant owned by one of Satomi's pack. You’ll pick up a standing order, far too much food and take it home to indulge in a lazy night of delicious, organic food you don’t have to prepare, and a movie that is just the right side of cheesy, before you crawl into your big empty bed and fuck yourself with a long slim dildo, all the while refusing to think of what Stiles’ cock must be like, if it matches the his long elegant fingers. 

You like your quiet routine, and now Stiles is standing in front of your desk, his fingers tapping along the edge of it, and there is a steady confidence in his heartbeat, and just a hint of sour nerves in the muddled heat of arousal. 

You finish the test and fight down the urge to smile because this boy. 

This beautiful, brilliant boy, who you want. 

Who you cannot have. 

“Peter,” he says, finally, a burst of noise and you fight down the shiver at your name on his lips. 

You mark a final answer wrong and set the test aside, and finally, finally, look up at him. Arch an eyebrow and drawl, “Can I help you, Mr. Stilinski?” 

He fidgets, a flush in his cheeks and even though you know you’re playing with fire, even though you know it’s the stupidest thing you’ve done in a long time, you huff and give him a stack of tests. “Grade while you figure it out.” 

Happiness warms his scent and he settles in the chair next to your desk--too close--and bends to his task. 

You don’t stare at his fingers, wrapped around his pen, or his lip, caught between his teeth. 

Definitely not the smooth line of his neck, head tilted just enough to bare the pale length of it. 

You shift in your desk chair, willing down your erection and forcing back the fangs itching at your gums. 

He’s quiet, as still as you have ever seen him, seemingly content to simply be near you and it’s only when you’ve finished grading the final test, when you’re waiting patiently for him to finish his last, that you say, curious and stupid, “Isn’t there something else you’d rather be doing on Friday night?” 

Stiles inhales sharply and his scent blooms with  _ want _ and he looks up from under his lashes, beautiful and bewitching and wicked. “No,” he murmurs. 

You stare at him, hold his gaze the way you never allow yourself and his breath goes short and fast, his mouth open and biteable. 

He’s sixteen and you are going to hell. 

“Peter,” he murmurs, swaying forward, tantalizingly close. 

“Stiles,” you whisper, and pull away. 

Hurt flashes in his eyes, and doubt, and you hate it, the way his scent goes wet and bitter, the way his entire body wilts, his eyes dim and uncertain. 

“Stiles, you’re  _ sixteen _ ,” you murmur, and---

It’s stupid, it’s wrong, it’s the very worst thing you could do, but you do--

You cup his jaw, rub a thumb over his soft, plush lips, and your dick jerks when his pink tongue flicks out, tastes, draws your thumb in and his eyes flutter closed as he whines, high in his throat. 

You watch, hard and incapable of looking away, of pulling away. 

Gods, he is  _ sixteen.  _

“I can’t,” you force out and drag your hand away, force it into your lap, clenched in a fist to hold the wet warmth close and he blinks at you, beautifully dazed. “I’m your  _ teacher _ . I’m fifteen years older than you.”

“I don’t care,” he insists, and you smile because you know he doesn’t. 

Sixteen and brilliant and fearless. And so stupid it’s almost laughable. 

You want him, despite that. Maybe because of that. 

“I do,” you say, gently. “I won’t do that to you, or myself.” 

Stiles’ gaze goes hard and hurt and you sigh. Draw him up with an impersonal hand on his elbow, steer him to the door of your room. “Don’t do this again, Stiles. It would hurt Derek and your father if I report this, and I will. For your sake and mine, if this happens again, I will report you.” 

“You want me,” he says, stubbornly sure and you consider him. 

“Yes,” you agree, because you are not a good man, and you are not accustomed to denying yourself what you want. “And it doesn’t matter because I am saying no.” 

He stares at you, hard and then nods. Hitches his bag onto his shoulder, and you hate the furious hurt in his eyes. 

You blame that, later. 

You touch his hand, and he jerks, wide eyed as you lean into him, and breath into his ear. “If you still feel this way, find me in ten years.” 

He stares at you as you pull away, his eyes bright and shining again, and you don’t have time to react as he brushes a lighting fast kiss against your lips, his scent heady with determination and hope before he slips away, wordlessly. 

You watch him go and wonder if he will. 

Know that he won’t--he is sixteen and infatuated and it will fade, as soon as you vanish from sight. 

If your chest tightens and aches at that thought, you don’t allow yourself to dwell on it. 

 

~*~ 

 

You see him, at Derek’s graduation, and he’s there, in the apartment, for the small party Derek hosts, nothing like the parties you know his classmates are throwing, but it’s fitting for your quiet, reserved nephew. 

You see him and he flicks a single glance at you, before his attention refocuses on Derek. You refuse to let that subtle slight sting. 

This is what you wanted. 

A month later, you receive the letter you’ve been waiting on, and by August, you’re living in LA, a professor at UCLA and Stiles is a fond memory that you think, with time and distance, will fade. 

But sometimes, occasionally, when you are lonely and hard, you think about it, the warm determination in his scent and wonder, if you stayed, if he would have found you. 

 

~*~

 

It will be years, long, devastating years, before you return to Beacon Hills.  


	2. Chapter 2

****

**Chapter 1**

You expect the world to shiver or shake, when you drive into Beacon Hills.

You know it’s ridiculous, and your lips twist in a mocking smile, but still--there is a part of you, that knows this is a life altering moment, and you find it strange that it is not marked by something other than your hands, tightening on the wheel.

Then again, no one knows you’re here.

That’s the whole point of coming back, isn’t it?

It’s eerily the same, you realize, as you drive through past long stretches of the preserve, past a smattering of houses and gas stations that deepen into urban development before the trees give way and Beacon Hills in all it’s rustic glory sprawls before you.

As much as you wanted to get out, when you were growing up, and as long as you have been gone now, the sight of home makes the wolf in you settle, not quite at ease, but quiet, for now.

You drive to the small apartment you secured for yourself, far from the Hale house, and miles below your personal standards, but it will do. For now, while you sort everything out, it will do.

You toss your bag on the bed, stare out the dirty window. The sun is bright and there’s an actual bird singing, and you are a thousand miles from where you woke up yesterday, close enough to feel _pack_ , and for the first time in six months, you relax, that constant tension draining away. You crawl into the bed that you paid the landlord to have set up, new and smelling faintly of plastic and the factory it was made in.

Then six months of fear and stress slam into you and you sleep.

 

~*~

 

You spend a few days settling into the city, ordering the essentials for the apartment online and living on takeout that leaves too much to be desired. You think, fondly, of the Thai place Staomi’s pack runs, but think going somewhere you would be so easily recognized is a bad idea, so you avoid it and continue to live on cheap Chinese that makes your stomach churn.

After four days, you stomp into Bed Bath and Beyond, and damn the consequences. Several hundred dollars later, you have a working kitchen and turn to the grocery store.

Before everything went to hell, you liked to cook. It was domestic and soothing and providing for your pack quieted your mind, when you were desperate and angry and violent.

You haven’t had the chance to cook in years, not since before you left LA, and you find yourself humming softly as you wander through the store, selecting produce and spices, and the essentials for making fresh pasta. You are deliberating over the meat, glaring at the inferior quality of the steak and lamb chops when a warm body crowds alongside yours.

“The butcher on 5th has better quality, but I’m usually too lazy to go.”

You freeze, because you never expected this. You didn’t--when you decided to come back, decided to run, it was calculated on where you would be safest and least likely to be found. You knew you would encounter Derek, wanted to even--but you never dreamed, never _dared_ dream that he would still be here.

“Mr. Stilinski,” you murmur, looking at him for the first time in nine years.

He’s breathtaking.

Stiles had always been beautiful, but this. You didn’t expect _this._

He’s grown up, grown into the long limbs and broad shoulders, the babyfat melted away to reveal a sharp jaw and high cheekbones and the delicate line of his throat that you can’t look away from.

His hair is longer, and there are lines you don’t recognize crinkling in the corner of his eyes, and he is so damn beautiful you want to whine.

“Peter,” he says. “What are you doing in town?”

His gaze is friendly but only that. There’s nothing else there, nothing like the desperate want you saw in him when he sat in your classes. None of the quiet longing and warmth that you took for granted.

You inhale and he smells of wolf, of pack and family and ink, and he grins, like he knows exactly what you’re doing, but isn’t going to call you on your shit, just yet.

“I thought I’d visit my nephew,” you finally manage to choke out.

Stiles gives you an unimpressed nod, and you remember, belatedly, that he’s always been too damn smart. “Funny that he didn’t know about it.”

He reaches past you and selects two packages of lamb chops, putting one in your cart before he steps back. “I’ll see you around.”

Then he’s turning away and you want to drag him back, but you force yourself still. You watch him walk away, dragging your eyes away from his ass a beat to late, and take a breath, catching the last of his elusive scent on the air before you remind yourself, that it’s not the time.

Even if you wanted and he wanted, the time is all wrong.

You aren’t dragging him or anyone else into your shit. And Stiles is a man now, not the starry eyed student who kissed you almost a decade ago--you knew he’d moved on, when you left Beacon Hills. It’s _why_ you left.

You refuse to regret that he did.

 

~*~

 

You expect Derek to find you, now that Stiles has. The days stretch out and you see the ugly blue Jeep Stiles drove in high school drive past the apartment a few times, but Derek never shows up.

Alphas do, instead--two of them, new enough that you don’t know them, and you think Deucalion is getting smarter because sending one of the others after you would have been a bad idea. Then you’re fighting, too busy trying to survive to parse out the bastard’s strategy.

 

~*~

 

You’re bleeding and you know it’s stupid--you can’t take this to Derek’s doorstep, you stayed away because it’s your mess to clean up--but you’re also pretty sure that if you don’t, you’ll bleed out.

Even werewolves can die.

You bang on the door and almost fall to the ground when it’s jerked open.

“Shit!”

“You’re not D’rek,” you slur and if you were a little more coherent, you would hate Stiles seeing you like this.

“No, I’m not, what the _fuck_ , Peter?”

“Attacked,” you say, and Stiles huffs. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters, and you groan as he drags you inside. He kicks the door shut and you lose time. There are moments when he’s close, murmuring in your ear, and moments when you’re shivering and every movement pulls at the shredded mess of your gut.

“You’re ok, Peter,” Stiles murmurs, and you tilt toward that voice, toward the smooth promise in it. “You’re healing already.”

You try to say something but all that comes out is a wine, and his fingers, wrapped around your wrist, tightens.

This wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted--you try not to think about what you wanted.

“Sorry,” you whisper and Stiles’ grip goes hard, a ring of bruises that will fade too fast. “I didn’t mean for this.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Stiles says, but his voice is soft, gentle as his fingers brushing over your jaw, and you give yourself up to that, and the black drags you down.

 

~*~  

 

When you wake, you see Stiles, sprawled in a chair, his head on the bed near your hip, dark smudges under his eyes and his fingers curled into your sheets. Its so strange, so unexpected that for a long moment, you can't look away, cant do anything but _look_.

For nine _years_ you have been gone and you tell yourself you don't think of him, that it was all adolescent infatuation from him.

But you're lying and sitting here now, watching him quietly breathing into the blankets--you finally allow yourself to admit that.

That you have missed Stiles, with his bright eyes and sharp smile.

You want him, want your life here in Beacon Hills, want your nephew back in your life. All the things you’ve run from, and now, lying in this bed that smells of Stiles in an apartment you shouldn’t  be in, you admit it at last--you want _everything_ you ran from.

The air stirs to your right and you jerk, your body screaming in protest as you jar the still healing wounds, and your nephew stares at you, his eyes hard and worried.

“Uncle Peter, what the hell are you doing here? And what the fuck did you bring into my territory?”

You lick your lips and force a smile. “About that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

You didn’t mean for it to happen. 

Before the fire that killed so much of your pack, maybe then you would have. You were young and cruel and ambitious, and always envious of the older sister who was your alpha, who wore the mantle of power like an old, comfortable coat. 

The fire burned that power right out of her, burned it into your skin and soul and you staggered under it, under the shattering bonds as your siblings died, as your nieces and cousins and nephews died. 

You lost your mind, then, driven mad from the rush of power and the loss of pack, and you didn’t know anything for a long time. 

By the time you clawed your way back to yourself, the pack had been buried, the house was deserted, and the Argents had long since fled. You gathered your angry nephew and thanked the good deputy who looked after him, and rented a tiny apartment in Beacon Hills. It was a broken sort of life, but it was all either of you had, and you made do. 

The Alpha Pack--Deucalion--came after, after Stiles and Derek’s graduation, after you ran, fled to the south and a too large city to lose yourself in. 

They came, years later, a beautiful man with a lovely accent and a well cut suit, and a cup of coffee, a knowing smile hiding in those sightless eyes. 

They came, after you gave Derek the Alpha spark, after you had washed your hands of pack and Beacon Hills and all the ashes and regret. 

And they came with the one thing you never let yourself contemplate, and once you got your teeth in it--you never questioned the price. 

You, for all of your brilliance and planning, were  _ very _ stupid. 

Deucalion walked into your life and dangled  _ vengeance  _ like so much pretty bait and you swallowed it, hook, line, sinker, and never questioned the sharp stabbing pain in your belly until it was too fucking late to get out.

 

~*~

 

“I don’t understand why the Alpha Pack would bother with you,” Derek says, a frown drawing his eyebrows down. “They want Alphas. You--” 

You huff and let your eyes flare crimson, just for a moment, and Stiles whistles. Cocks his head. “When’d you get the upgrade?” 

“A few months after I gave Derek his,” you say, shrugging and fighting off the wince.  Derek’s staring at you, his expression conflicted and you wait, because you are very good at waiting out your nephew’s slow turning thoughts. 

Derek is quietly brilliant, a fact you were endlessly grateful for, after the fire--but where Stiles is lighting fast, Derek is slow, putting things together but always with careful consideration and deliberation. 

“Did you give it up, knowing you’d find a new alpha spark to take?” Derek asks, softly. 

You smirk. “No. I was quite selfless, nephew, when I did that. It was perhaps the only good Alpha thing I’ve done for you.” You slide a glance at Stiles and continue, “And look--you’re prospering. You have a competent little Emissary, much better than your mother ever had, and a growing pack, if the scents in your den are anything to go by.” 

“Stiles isn’t my emissary,” Derek says absently. You don’t react to that, just stare at your nephew and try to control the shaking in your hands as you sip your coffee. 

“What does he want?” 

“Access to the Hale vaults,” you say, easily. “Our alliances and Hunter network.” 

Derek scowls, but Stiles--

“He wants to target the strongest Alphas, doesn’t he? Talia only allied with the strong.” You give him a startled, but pleased nod but he’s staring into nothing, face set into a frown. “But what does--” He focuses suddenly, whiskey warm eyes boring into you. “What happened to the Argents?” 

Derek stiffens but you ignore him, say smoothly, “I have no idea. Didn’t they leave Beacon Hills after the fire?” 

Stiles stares and you return it steadily. He’s unnerving and beautiful and you want him, but he is hardly the most threatening thing you’ve stared down in your life, and in the end he huffs and looks away. 

“Kill the strong Alphas and steal their sparks, bring down the strong Hunter clans and he’s got literally nothing to stop him from taking whatever he wants.” 

You nod, and look away because it’s dangerous, staring at Stiles. 

He’s like a flickering flame you want to lean into, warm yourself on, and you’ve been burnt too many times to go anywhere near fire. 

“And you didn’t want to deliver?” Derek says. 

There was much, in the end that you didn't want to give to Deucalion. Far too much to go into today. You shrug. “We went our separate ways.” 

Stiles snorts, and it drags your eyes to him. “It looks like someone isn’t ready to go, Peter. He fucking followed you here.” 

You shrug, and very deliberately don’t think about what you took from Deucalion’s house, when you left that last time. 

Now isn’t the time to play that particular card. 

“Call the pack?” Stiles asks, glancing at Derek and you wonder, not for the first time, what  _ is  _ between them. If Stiles isn’t his emissary--what is he? Why is he still here? 

It isn’t yours to wonder about--you gave that up. You walked away, and it was the best choice--only choice--for everyone involved.

“Yeah,” Derek sighs. Rubs a hand over his face. “Lydia is going to be furious, I told her she could have finals week.” 

Stiles shrugs. “I can do the spell work--but if you don’t let her know, I’m  not saving your ass when she finds out.” 

Derek makes a face and nods. “Call the rest--I’ll talk to Lydia.” 

Stiles hums agreeably, and it occurs to you that they’re good at this, familiar with each other and the pack enough to not falter at all in the face of a fucking  _ Alpha pack.  _

“I thought you weren’t an emissary,” you say, because it’s the safest thing to say. 

Nothing you say to Stiles is safe. He’s a minefield waiting to explode and you’re not entirely sure you’ll survive when he does. 

He gives you a cryptic smile and says, “I’m not  _ Derek’s  _ emissary. But I’m trained as much as Lydia--maybe more, since I’m a Spark and she’s a Banshee.” 

You want to ask why, want to ask what he’s been doing all these years, want to know everything about him. 

“Pups are on their way,” he calls and Derek grunts from where he’s talking on the phone to his emissary. 

Neither look worried and you try to understand that while Stiles carries the coffee cups to the sink and then texts someone. “Dad’s gonna be late, Der.” 

“You aren’t worried,” you say eventually and Stiles glances at you, an eyebrow raised. “Two alphas are dead in your territory and the Demon Wolf is gunning for me, and--neither of you are worried.” 

Something dark and deep slips across his face, and you feel your breath snag in your chest because whatever looks out of his eyes is ancient and it makes your blood run cold. 

“It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to us,” he says, nonchalant, shrugging and when he blinks, Stiles is the same as he’s ever been. Beautiful and enigmatic and never yours, no matter how much you want him to be. “It’s not even the worst thing to happen this year.” 

You stare at him, and for the first time--you see the faint white lines on his arms and hands, the one working it’s way up his pale throat. 

Scars. 

You saw a witch with scars like those, once in New Orleans, and her magic was deep and powerful and made your blood crawl and your wolf howl. 

You stare at Stiles and his scars burned into his skin by blood magic, and you wonder. 

What the hell happened when you left Beacon Hills? 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags, lovelies.

Stiles pushes you--gently, you’re still tender and his narrow-eyed gaze seems to take in the way you’re hiding the urge to flinch--into the bathroom with orders to shower, and throws some clothes that smell of him and Derek in after you.

You can hear them talking, the low, indistinct tones that don’t allow you to understand the conversation, just let you know it’s happening, and it makes you huff and in annoyance.

The shampoo you grab is Stiles, and it washes over you suddenly that this is his bathroom. That you are in his space, the place where he stands naked and vulnerable. You wonder if he leans against the tiles, while he gets off.

You wonder who he sees, when his eyes close and his hand moves fast over his hard cock.

You think, briefly, seriously, about getting off here, with the scent of shampoo and warm water in your nose, but you don’t. You huff a sigh and hope your restraint is appreciated as you shower with quick efficiency, ignoring the tugging in your side where that baby Alpha clawed you open.

When you emerge, the living room has been cluttered with oversized pillows and beanbags, and Stiles is in the kitchen, humming offkey as he throws pigs in a blanket together and slides it into the oven.

You watch for a moment, content to watch because you will admit to yourself, where no one else can hear--you’ve missed this.

Missed him, his perpetual motion and delectable body, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck.

“Staring is rude, creeper wolf,” he says and you startle a little, and try to ignore the flutter in your gut when he shoots a lazy smirk at you over his shoulder. “Make a sandwich bar,” he says, nodding at the array of food on the counter.

You smirk but do as your told, laying out meat and cheese, slicing tomato and onion and dumping pickles into a little bowl, slicing french bread and croissants. “Do you do this often?” you ask, curiously, as Stiles pulls the pigs in a blanket out and throws cookies in behind it.

The kitchen isn’t standard for an apartment, and you think with the way Stiles moves, natural and sure, that it is regular.

You wonder why it bothers you, to see him taking care of Derek’s pack.

“Often enough. Derek likes having the pack close, and they like being fed,” Stiles shrugs.

You slide a glance at him. “But this isn’t a pack bonding night.”

He’s staring back, his gaze steady, with a hint of amusement. “No, I guess it’s not.” You watch him lick a speck of chocolate off his thumb and your mouth is dry, your hands itching to reach out and _take._

“You’re different,” you blurt out and Stiles’ eyes widen, just a little. A flush works it’s way into his cheeks and you want to chase it down his throat with your tongue.

“Well, I guess that makes sense. I’m not a lovesick high school student anymore. You were gone a long time, Peter. I grew up.” He shrugs, like that isn’t exactly what you wanted, like that isn’t tearing you apart.

The door swings open and his head snaps up, eyes narrow and dangerous for a moment before his smile goes bright and lazy.

A girl, blonde and curvy and shrieking, throws herself into Stiles, and you take the moment to slip away.

 

~*~

 

You’ve never met Derek’s pack.

Not intentional, the way you avoided Derek and Beacon Hills--well, perhaps a _bit_ intentional--but a side effect of your long years away are that you’ve never spent any time with his ragged pack of children.

Because they are. Boisterous and loud, all of them bitten, all of them younger even than Stiles.

You’ve never met Derek’s pack and as you watch them flood the apartment, you wish you could still say that.

“Who’re you?” the blonde asks.

“Erica,” Derek huffs, a gentle rebuke and the girl flashes long sharp teeth at her alpha.

“I’m Peter,” you say, instead of pointing out her lack of respect. You think that maybe you could like this one, if she’s going to needle your nephew like that.

“Peter?” the blond cherub in the corner asks, his voice disbelieving. You glance at him and find he’s looking at Stiles of all people. “ _Peter_ Peter?”

“Drop it, Isaac,” Stiles says, sharply, and he flushes, looks away. He leans into the black man sitting between himself and Erica.

You think Stiles’ sharp tone and the bright curiosity in Isaac are very telling. You only wish you knew what they are supposed to be telling you.

“Uncle Peter,” Derek says abruptly, and the entire pack stills, attention narrowing on the alpha. Maybe these rambunctious puppies are worth a damn after all. They watch him as he finishes,“Is being hunted.”

One of the puppies groans and Derek nods. “Agreed. But he’s here, and he’s pack, and we’re going to help him.”

There’s a beat of silence and then, “Uh, Der?”

You look at Stiles, sidelong.

“He isn’t exactly pack,” Stiles points out.

“He’s my uncle, and my only living relative,” Derek says evenly. His eyes narrow and something unspoken pass between them. Stiles huffs.

“Fine,” he snaps. “But if our pack takes losses because of his baggage, I’ll take it out of his fucking hide.”

Isaac shivers, and you see that ancient thing sliding around behind Stiles eyes. You think he probably means it.

“Get some food,” Derek says, wearily, waving at the kitchen. “Then we’ll hear Peter’s story.”

His gaze swings to you, hard and unflinching. “The _whole_ story.”

 

~*~

 

You were happy with the Alpha pack. Not always--there was infighting and a constant fight for position, but you liked that. You liked that you stood at Deuc’s side, not quite mate, not quite Second, but close. Something indefinable and enviable.

You liked that the other ‘wolves watched you, greedy and plotting.

That you were a threat they recognized and were wary of.

You liked your nights in Deuc’s bed, the way he fought you for dominance, the way he went pliant under you.

You didn’t like the dead bodies, though. Not that you mind killing, per se--you don’t. But it’s nice if it actually means something and eventually, you realized--with Deuc it, it didn’t. It might be a move on a board, dead piling up to win him some favor or indebt a ‘wolf to his bastardized pack. But there was no real point to it, and that grated.

Deuc offered you vengeance and you sank your teeth in it and it took you years to realize that the baggage he dragged into you life, might not be worth Kate Argent’s blood on your claws.

 

~*~

 

“Why is he chasing you?” Stiles asks, after you’ve explained it. After the whole sordid story is laying out.

“Because he thinks I’m his,” you say and something flickers in her gaze. “He offered me the mating bite. I refused. He...wasn’t pleased.”

Understatement. It took you almost a month to recover from that, from particular beating. Details that aren’t necessary here.

“I have something he wants,” you add.

“The vaults,” Derek says and Erica frowns.

“ _Our_ vaults?”

You give the pretty beta a dismissive sniff. “The Hale vaults. And,” you hesitate, before you watch Stiles and Derek. Your nephew is leaning back, arms crossed, eyes intent. Stiles is relaxed near him, but his eyes are sharp, measuring you.

And for the first time in almost a decade--you feel safe. You feel _seen_ and you feel the weight you’ve learned to live with slip from your shoulders.

“I stole something, when I left.”

“Why?” Derek asks, the whole room breathless and tense.

“Because the Demon Wolf is strong enough without the power of La Béte du Gévaudan behind him,” you say softly.   

 

~*~

 

Derek’s pack of children have no idea what it means, what La Béte _means_ and you wonder what the hell your nephew has been up to, that they’re this uninformed.

You don’t ask--it’s not your place to ask.

He kicks them out when the arguing gets too much, and looks at you. “Where is it?”

“The old house,” you say and Derek makes a face.

“I’ll take him,” Stiles says. “Get Lydia. I have a feeling La Béte trumps finals.”

Derek makes a face, but he goes, pausing for a heartbeat, glancing back at Stiles.

“I’m fine,” the boy says, grinning and shooing the alpha with a flap of his hand. “I’ve got this nice strong alpha to protect me.”

A growl rumbles in Derek’s chest, and Stiles laughs, dark and menacing, and you shiver.

Whatever is hidden in that laugh, it makes Derek huff and his shoulder unknot, and he goes, without further protest.

Stiles swings his keys on his finger and gives you an expectant smirk. “Let’s go get the Beast, creeper wolf,” he says, cheerfully and you can’t argue with him, don’t even want to. You follow him from the apartment and ignore the scent of ozone and burnt sand that trails him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been FOREVER, I'm sorry--life got super hectic and busy but I'm back and have a whole plot and what not. So. Yay?!?


	5. Chapter 5

The road into the preserve is familiar, and you lean your head against the window of Stiles’ rattling old jeep as he bounces down the dirt road, too fast to be anything but familiar. 

You wonder how often he comes here, that it is familiar, and why that thought soothes you. 

“How long has it been, since he bit them?” you ask, and feel the glance Stiles flicks over at you. 

“Isaac was his first, a few months after you gave him the spark,” he says. “And Jackson came with Lydia, but he didn’t stick around.” 

You glance over at that and he shrugs. “The bite didn’t agree with Jackson.” 

He doesn’t explain that further, and you don’t press as he pulls to a stop in front of the old house. You watch him to avoid looking at it. 

“Erica and Boyd were a year later. We took in a few strays from Satomi’s pack but they left for college and never came back. But he likes it small. The three betas, Lydia, me and Dad. Derek doesn’t want much more than that.” 

You shift, because there it is again, that casual reference to his place in Derek’s pack, and the blinding fury that wells in you, when he does. 

He watches you, expression frankly assessing. 

There is a question on the tip of your tongue, and his gaze is daring you to ask. 

You push open the door and the night sweeps in, the familiar scent of the preserve and night warm air, the bitter ash and decay that cuts through it all. 

And something else. 

You snarl, and Stiles, coming around the jeep freezes for a moment. 

“Shit,” he mutters, and then he’s got you by the arm, dragging you backwards, a move so startling and unexpected you let yourself be pulled, until you’re hitting the front door and falling through. 

Stiles stares at you from the doorway, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Sorry about this,” he says, and his heartbeat stays even. 

You feel the mountain ash fall into place a second too late and you snarl, furious, as you throw yourself at the barrier, at Stiles standing loose and easy on the far side of it. 

“Stiles,  _ no,”  _ you shout, but he’s ignoring you. 

Enis emerges from the shadows, his eyes glowing red, half shifted and towering. 

Whatever else he is, Stiles is  _ human _ , and you are trapped behind a circle of his making, while he faces your mistakes. Derek won’t kill you for this--you’ll do the job yourself. 

“Hi,” Stiles chirps happily and it drags your gaze to him. Away from Enis to blink at him like he’s insane because--you think maybe he is. “You’re new to Beacon Hills, aren’t you?” 

Enis snarls and Stiles grins. The shadows around him are shifting, almost like mist rolling across the dirt. “See, if you  _ weren’t _ new, you’d know--flashing reds at me isn’t going to do anything but piss me and the local alpha off.” 

“Do you really think I care?” Enis growls and Stiles sighs. 

“No,” he admits, “but you probably should.” 

Enis snarls, and--

The mist  _ shifts, _ roiling up and up and up, billowing until it finally clears and three ninjas stand there. You see one twitch toward you before Stiles snaps in sharp Japanese. You glimpse the cruel mask, before the creature turns and Stiles studies Enis, flanked by his conjured ninjas, and says, hopefully, “You can still run.” 

Enis laughs and lunges forward. 

You lose track quickly. They move like liquid, like smoke and steel. It’s not like when a werewolf kills, all raging ferocity, ripping and tearing--this is cold, precise, careful cuts that draw blood and incapacitate, and leave the alpha howling. 

When he howls now, it’s in agony and fear. 

Stiles watches from the steps of the house, elbows braced on his knees, and only moves when the ninjas force Enis to his knees. 

“You should have run,” he murmurs, and you gasp as he reaches out, his hands gentle as they fit to either side of Enis’ large head. 

He  _ rips _ , and there’s a wet tearing sound, and the body drops, bloody and dead, at his feet. 

The ninjas melt away with the shadows, and it leaves only Stiles, standing in the dark with blood stained clothes and a head in his hands. 

His eyes are glowing, a bright yellow, when he turns to you, and you  _ want _ . So sharp and sudden it makes you shake. You want this boy who shoved you into protection and killed your attacker, this boy who has something dark and  _ powerful _ hidden in him, who is watching you with curious, patient eyes that slowly fade to intoxicating amber, a head dangling from his fist. 

You swallow and force it down, and stand as Stiles breaks the line of mountain ash. 

Ignore it, and turn to the depth of the house. 

“It’s back here.” 

Stiles huffs, a tiny laugh, but his footsteps are sure and steady as he follows you. 

 

~*~

 

“That’s it?” Stiles says, doubtfully. 

He’s cleaned up, and Enis’ head is sitting in a pot on the counter because he didn’t want it bleeding everywhere. 

You think carrying a head around is a messy business and maybe you should have left the damn thing with the rest of Enis in the preserve, but Stiles waved away your objection and stared at the bundle of bones and claws you unroll on Derek’s coffee table. 

“It’s--not much.”

“Well, it’s not a head in a pot,” you say, exasperated, and Stiles gives you a mild glare. 

“Why does he want them?” Stiles asks, finally, and you let a private smile turn your lips. All these years later and he's still curious and clever, quick to ask just the right questions. 

“Do you know what an alpha can do with his claws?” 

You look up in time to see the way Stiles rubs the back of his neck. Interesting. 

“They also can retain power,” you say instead of chasing that curious reaction. “And Deuc wants that power.” 

Stiles watches you, his eyes sharp and unreadable. “You were close to him. Weren't you.” 

For a heartbeat, you consider lying. Your relationship with Deuc has no bearing on this. He won't protect or save you because of it, not since you stole half his fortune and the literal keys to the kingdom and ran like hell. 

“I was his lover,” you say plainly. “For years. He trusted me.” 

Stiles hums thoughtfully but turns away. Back to Enis’ head in a pot and you ask your own question. “Why aren't you Derek's emissary?” 

Stiles snorts. “Because no one was taking that position from Lydia. I like my dick attached and she’d cut it off with a rusty knife, if I tried to take that from her. And Der--I love him. He's my best friend. But he's not my alpha. Not like he would have to be, for me to be emissary.”

You watch him as he calls Derek and talks in low tones, and you wonder what the hell it means. 

Until he finishes fucking with the head, doing god knows what and he looks at you. “Are you going to ask?” he demands, and you think again of the shadows, the ninjas that crawled from them and protected him. 

You think of them and of the red eyed woman whose howls chased you from the Preserve, that he hasn’t asked about. 

You think about the fact that he’s here, and you haven’t asked about the kiss, or all the years since. 

“No,” you say, finally, and begin rolling up the long, razor sharp claws.

Stiles huffs, almost irritated, “Why the hell not?” 

“Because,” you smirk at him, and his heart trips, a delightful little noise. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. 


	6. Chapter 6

Derek sighs when he sees the head. 

“I thought we said no more body parts in the house,” he calls and you snort. 

“How many body parts do you have that he needs to make that stipulation?” you mutter. 

“ _ Rude,” _ Stiles huffs and shouts back, “You made that stipulation. I didn’t agree to it, Der.” 

A rumbling growl comes from the kitchen and Stiles looks positively delighted, and then the sharp click of heels makes his whole face light up. He leaps up and you stir, curious what’s drawn such a response from your boy. 

Oh. 

The banshee is lovely. She’s long curling red hair and pale skin in a tiny package, full red lips and a sharp green gaze and fury rolling off her in waves. 

“Lydia!” Stiles cries, happily and it irks you, that she’s given such a warm greeting. 

“One fucking week, Stilinski,” she snaps, “You idiots couldn’t give me  _ one week?” _

“Emissary duties don’t care about mundane things like finals, goddess,” Stiles says, lazily and grins. 

She snarls, and twists to Derek. “Where’s the dead body?” 

“Um. The preserve?” Derek shoots a hopeful glance at Stiles who nods agreeably and Lydia freezes. 

Drops her purse. “There’s an  _ actual _ dead body?” 

“I thought you said she was a banshee?” you murmur and Stiles elbows you in the ribs. 

“I am,” Lydia says, not looking at you. “But there’s a lot of dead bodies in Beacon Hills, and I don’t notice  _ all  _ of them.” She looks at Stiles. “Yours?” 

He nods and she hums. 

“I suppose there’s a lot to fill me in on?” 

Derek nods and she huffs. “Fine. Coffee and sweatpants, then you can tell me about the latest big bad. And why the hell he’s here.” Her gaze on you is cutting, and you smile, sunnily. She bares her teeth and then flounces past to steal clothes from your nephew and you--you glance curiously at Stiles. 

It’s not unheard of or even unusual for the Alpha and Emissary to be close. You know Julie and Kali were, before Duec ordered her dead. But you’re surprised by this. 

“It’s not--they’re not together. Lydia had a breakdown, after her banshee power manifest. Derek helped her. He taught her, and he protected Jackson, as long as he could.” Stiles shrugs. “They bonded. But it’s nothing more than friendship. She’s like his sister.” 

You close your eyes for a moment at that, because Derek had a sister, once. 

He had three, and a brother, so tiny he barely had a chance to live. 

Stiles brushes his fingers against your hand, and says, lowly, “Sorry. That was--” 

“Don’t apologize,” you grit out and move away from him. 

He let’s you, and you drift to the window, you’re eyes on the night sky. 

~*~ 

There’s a brief calm, a kind of quiet as Lydia researches. Your nephew’s emissary is brilliant, a force of nature that bulldozes Derek and his pack, and only ever seems to have restraint around Stiles. 

You think that’s odd, in and of itself, but not so much so that it demands your attention. 

Derek and Boyd go to your apartment and return with everything they think you could want, and news that Kali had marked your door. 

Stiles huffed, and shrugged. “We’ll deal with it,” he says, and goes back to typing on his computer. 

You snarl, wordless, and stalk into your room. 

It’s only a little surprising when you emerge from your shower to an empty house, Lydia and Derek’s heartbeats conspicuously absent. 

Not Stiles though. He’s there, warm and heartbeat too fast and steady, and it soothes the worst edges of your temper. 

He’s sitting on the couch, when you enter, a cup of coffee cradled by his long delicate fingers, and he nods at a cup on the table. “For you.” 

You sip it and gingerly sit, staring resolutely at the coffee. 

His toes dig into your thigh and you jerk away from him, breath catching. 

It makes him go still, and when you chance a look at him, his eyes are soft and sad. “Peter, when’s the last time you were in a pack? Not what you had with the Alphas, but a real pack.” 

You blink, and look away, because you can’t stand that look in his eyes, can’t stand the pity you know will be there if you answer. 

“Since I left,” you grit out. 

Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, for a long time and you finish your coffee in silence, some of the tension draining from you. 

It’s pathetic, how grateful you are to simply sit next to him in silence. 

“I didn’t mean to drive you away.” 

You look at him. It’s the closest either of you have come to addressing that day in the classroom so many years ago, and it’s shocking, to see how serious he looks, the way his eyes glitter in the low lamplight. 

“You didn’t,” you answer, voice rough and he gives you a doubtful look. You grin and stand. “I was already halfway out the door, Stiles. I needed to get away from Beacon Hills and everything I lost. I only stayed because of Derek.” 

You don’t add that you stayed for him. That if things had been different--if your family hadn’t been killed in a fire--you would never have left. 

You don’t tell him that you wonder, sometimes, what life would have been like, if you had stayed, if you had drawn him close and kissed him the way you wanted, courted him the way pack tradition demanded, if you had made him yours. 

You don’t say any of that. 

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I didn’t--I didn’t help. And I’m sorry.” 

You turn, and you’re not terribly surprised to see him in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning there. 

He fits so neatly into Derek’s life, and you want him in yours. 

You want him in your pack and in your life and in your bed. 

“I’m not,” you say, huskily, and his eyes go wide, a moment before you step into his space and kiss him. 

For a moment, he’s stiff and startled against you, his mouth an unyielding line as you press against him, press him into the doorjam and grip his hips, licking at the plush lips you haven’t been able to forget in nine fucking  _ years.  _

He whines, and you snarl, licking into his mouth as he opens for you, and the kiss that was gentle goes deep and dirty in less than a heartbeat, teeth and tongue and delicious wet heat that makes you groan, roll your hips into him, and you groan again when you feel him, hard and hot against your hip. 

He gasps as you nip at his throat, and his hands are on your shoulder, nails biting down just the right side of painful and then he’s pushing. 

You blink, because that doesn’t make sense. 

“Peter, _stop_ ,” he gasps, and you jerk back, almost stumble over your feet because his scent is threaded through with spicy arousal and sour panic. He’s staring at you, his eyes wide and scared, and his hands are shaking when they press against his red, kiss swollen lips. 

“Stiles,” you say and he holds a hand up. 

You go quiet, waiting. 

Gut twisting and afraid, you wait. 

“We--I’m not that kid, anymore,” he says, his voice shaky. “And you--you didn’t want me. I haven’t forgotten how that ended, Peter. Ok? I’m just--you’re here, and I’m glad. Derek needs you. He’s too much of an idiot to admit it, but he’s missed you. But that’s--I can’t offer you anything more than friendship right now, Peter.” 

You stare at him. His hands have steadied as he talks, and his voice is firm, his eyes bright and unwavering, and you know he’s not lying. 

That he doesn’t--

Your gut churns unpleasantly and you nod, a sharp jerky movement, and straighten. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--” 

He waves it away and smiles, and it’s not the smile he gave you, another lifetime ago. It’s friendly and safe, coolly polite. “No worries, dude,” he says, and skirts past you to reach the coffee. 

You slip away as soon as you can, slip into your guest room, in this house that isn’t yours with a boy that doesn’t want to be yours, and you close your eyes as you lay on the bed. 

And you hate yourself, more than you ever have, for walking away from Stiles, all those years ago. 


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn’t mention it, and Derek doesn’t bring it up. You think maybe he didn’t tell Derek, and you’re pleased--strangely touched, that he would protect you like this. 

Stiles does something with a boiling cauldron and Ennis head that makes Derek’s face wrinkle in disgust, but when it’s done, he reeks of pleased pride, and Stiles is wavering with exhaustion but nods. “It’s done, dude.” 

You don’t find out until two days later that Stiles shifted the wards on Derek’s territory, let the scent of the dead alpha coat them, a warning and a taunt. 

“Is it smart?” you ask, and Derek shrugs.

“We---we don’t always get to do what’s smart, Uncle. But we’ve kept the territory and we’re all alive, so I count it as a win, even when Stiles does shit that's a little dark.” 

“What happened?” you ask, the question that’s been tripping on the tip of your tongue since you landed in his house, and looked up at Stiles. 

He hesitates, and then sighs. “The nemeton happened. There was other shit--a darach, some human sacrifice, the whole mess with the kanima. But in the end, what it came down to is the nemeton. The darach woke it, and what we didn’t realize was it was holding something.”

You stare at him, heart pounding, eyes wide. You know about the nemeton, the hub of power that first drew your family to Beacon Hills, back when this land was walked by the First Nation and was wild and untamed. But you’ve never seen it--it vanished, hid itself with magic in the deep woods generations ago. 

“What,” you ask, your lips dry, and Derek stares at you. 

“That’s not my story to tell,” he says, finally, and you know without asking, it’s Stiles. 

It’s always Stiles. 

“Stiles isn’t sharing stories with me,” you murmur, and Derek glances away. Something like a smile ticks on his face. 

“Is that cause you kissed him?” 

You flush, and you hate yourself for it. “He told you?” 

“He’s my best friend, Uncle Peter. He’s always told me.” 

It hits you, suddenly, that he knew. All those years ago, he  _ knew.  _

“I didn’t--you know I didn’t touch him when you were in high school.” 

Derek nods. “I know. That’s not who you are. I knew then, you never would. And I knew you wanted him.” 

There’s no point in denying it, so you don’t. “It didn’t bother you?” 

“Sometimes?” Derek says. “You were my only family and he was my best friend, and sometimes, we almost felt like pack. Even if it was  _ wrong _ , or I would have been on the outside--it was right, being together. Does that make sense?” 

You nod, because it does. It’s fucked up logic, but you were fucked up, then. So was Derek. 

Maybe you still are. 

“Stiles--it was hard for him, when you left. There was a couple years, when I wasn’t sure he was going to actually survive it. Then I was an Alpha, and his spark woke up, and we started dealing with the unending shitstorm--and he got his head on straight. Stopped fucking everything that moved at the Jungle, stopped drinking. He graduated with honors, and he could have done anything. But he likes it here, even after--everything--and he stayed.”

You want to stay still and quiet, listen to everything your nephew is willing to give you about the beautiful boy you don’t have a single claim to. You want to demand more, want the name of every asshole who ever touched him. But you don’t. 

It’s not your right, and Stiles doesn’t want you. 

“He’s happy now, Uncle Peter. And he isn’t my emissary, doesn’t even formally claim me as his alpha, but he’s  _ pack. _ Do you understand?” 

You do. This isn’t just your nephew telling you about the years he spent without you, or a best friend giving a shovel talk. 

This is an alpha, defending his pack and warning a rival off. 

“Do you love him?” 

“Yes,” he answers, promptly. “I wouldn’t be alive, without him. And I mean that literally--Stiles kept me from killing myself more times than you probably want to know, after the fire. And he’s saved my life even more often than I’ve saved his.” There’s a fond smile on his lips, and a shine to his eyes that makes your gut twist. “But I’m not in love with him. I’m not--I don’t want that. Not even with Stiles. I just want him to be happy.” 

“And I hurt him once,” you rasp out, and Derek nods, watching you. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks almost guilty, which is as sweet as it is infuriating. “I’m--Stiles isn’t why I came back.” 

“But you’re here. And you kissed him. And you’ll leave again, and I’ll be the one who's picking up the pieces.” 

“He doesn’t want me,” you snap, standing and pacing away from him. Something happens to Derek’s heartbeat and you jerk around to stare at him. Frown. 

“He said that?” Derek asks, and you nod. 

“When I kissed him. So you don’t need to worry about him getting hurt. He’s over me.” Your words are bitter, and sadder than you intend and it makes you even angrier, that you can’t keep yourself together even that little bit. Derek is staring at you, something sad on his face that looks close to pity and you  _ hate _ him for it, suddenly. 

“Are we done with family bonding and story time?” you ask, sharply, walking away. 

 

~*~

 

Derek doesn’t talk about Stiles and your ill timed kiss again. 

He makes dinner, and you realize that the house has been quiet for hours, a stillness that makes you anxious. 

“He goes to see his Dad, on Sundays. We’re on our own for dinner, but he’ll be home later.” Derek says, when you make your fifth cup of coffee. He nudges a bowl of stew, thick and fragrant, at you like a peace offering. “The puppies will come by, and we’ll watch a movie. You should join us.” 

“I’m not pack,” you say, and Derek gives you a dry look. 

“I didn’t realize,  tell me more.” 

You snap your teeth at him, and it earns you a laugh. It makes you warm when you realize, you’ve only ever heard him laugh at Stiles, before. 

Even now, the fire haunts you and your nephew, and you see it, in the way he’s slightly withdrawn from his pack, the way he checks and triple checks and goes back to check again,  any heat source in the kitchen. 

You see it in the way his eyes run over empty seats and his eyes shutter, and the candles, unlit and haunting, on the mantle. 

You’re not the only one with scars from that night, and you realize abruptly how unfair it was. 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” you say, staring into your soup. 

“What?” Derek says, sounding honestly startled. 

“It wasn’t fair. I--I was running away and I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed here, for you.” 

“You  _ did,”  _ Derek says, firmly, and it jerks your head up. “You stayed, when I needed you to. Right after--I needed to be here almost as much as I hated being here. And you made that possible, you stayed even though you hated it. You didn’t do anything wrong, leaving after graduation.” 

You stare at him, not sure you believe him--but you  _ want  _ to believe him. 

Derek’s head jerks, his gaze snapping to the door and it slams open as you look over. Stiles is there, and you snarl when you see him. 

There’s a bruise on his cheek, and blood in his hair, and he’s swaying where he stands, but there’s something wild and ecstatic about him, his grin a feral, excited thing as he bares his teeth at Derek and you. “We’ve got a problem.” 


	8. Chapter 8

You watch, your claws extended and rage burning in your gut as Derek cleans up Stiles’ cheek. The boy is almost vibrating out of his skin, and the air smells of ozone and fury--two angry alphas in too small a space.

When Derek throws down the gauze he pushes away, scowling at Stiles. “What the hell happened?” 

Stiles is  _ pissed _ and seems to be  _ offended _ by Derek's question. “She’s a goddamn alpha, Derek.” 

“You're a trained Spark with three Oni at your bidding. How the hell did she get the drop on you?” 

You watch as Stiles’ cheeks turn the loveliest shade of pink. “I was distracted,” he mutters and Derek snorts. 

Whips around to face you. “Who the fuck is she?” 

Her scent is all over him and her claws were in his skin and you want to rip her to pieces. 

“My problem,” you say, almost pleasant, before you leave the room. 

~*~

Stiles and Derek are still arguing, a low indistinct buzz of  noise from the office, when you slip out. 

It’s not their mess. Kali’s grudge is for you and you alone to deal with--you’ve brought enough down on Derek and his pack. Enough down on  _ Stiles,  _ and when Kali bleeds, you want it on your claws. 

You want to take her still warm heart to him, lay it at his feet like an offering, like a courting gift. 

Even knowing he isn’t yours to court or want, even knowing he doesn’t want  _ you. _

You tuck your hands in your pockets and walk. 

There’s no point in searching for her, and no point in shaking the blonde tail stalking you, so you don’t try. You just walk, until you reach the park near the center of downtown. 

It’s were you and Talia would sit, and watch the kids play, on days when the pack didn’t demand her attention, when your studies didn’t demand yours. 

It’s the place you first saw Stiles, years before the fire, laughing with his mother, a bright, happy boy with a curious, captivating gaze. 

The swing creaks as Erica sits next to you, and you spare her a glance. You aren't especially enamored with Derek's pack and Erica's easy affection with Stiles grates on your nerves--but there's an underlying steel in her that intrigues you. 

“Derek is going to be pissed when he finds out you're doing this,” she says. 

“And yet, here you are, instead of running to Daddy. What does that say about you, I wonder.”

She flashes a grin. “Says I don't really care if Derek is pissed. Besides, he’ll brood for  _ ages  _ if you do something stupid like get yourself killed.  _ And _ it would upset Stiles.”

You smile, amused by this girl's blunt practicality and misplaced confidence. You glance away as you hear a familiar rythmic clicking and murmur, voice too low to carry, “Stay close and listen to me if I tell you to run. Do you understand? I don't especially want Derek's betas dying on my watch.” 

She snorts but there's a stillness, a tenseness to her that says she's paying attention. That she’ll listen, and it eases some of the tension in in you. You don’t think you need her, don’t think she’s in any real danger, but knowing she’ll obey settles you. 

The  _ click click _ comes closer, and you straighten on your swing as she slips from the trees. 

Kali is, as ever, unchanged. 

Tall and lean and dark, she’d be lovely, if she wasn’t so close to feral. 

Of all the Alphas Deucalion gathered to him, Kali was the one you hate and distrust the most. 

The one who was unapologetically dangerous, vicious and gleeful in her cruelty. 

“Ballsy, just sitting here. Waiting,” she smiles, and you shrug. 

“You’ve never been able to kill me, Kali. I don’t know what you think has changed.”

“You aren’t his bed warmer, now,” she spits and you laugh. 

“If you think that’s what kept me alive every time you tried to kill me, you’re stupider than you look.” 

She snarls and you sigh. Push to your feet as Erica tenses next to you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Where is Enis?” 

Ah yes. Her mate, the muscle bound giant too stupid to see when she used him. You let your lips curl into a feral smile. “Dead in the woods. Except his head. The Hale Alpha kept that.” 

She roars, a furious noise that makes Erica cringe and charges you. 

The problem with Kali is she is shortsighted. 

She saw the power Deuc offered and not the strings. 

She saw the change your presence brought, and not an ally. 

She saw the favorite, and not a threat. 

She sees a lone wolf, and not an omega. 

She’s never looked below the surface, never thought to wonder why you were in Deuc’s favorite, why he took you to bed and in his confidence, why, even now, you are alive, while every alpha he’s sent for you is dead, why you’ve survived this long. 

She’s short sighted, and you have spent years, watching her fight. 

Kali comes in a rush, slashing claws and high, showy kicks. There’s no substance to it--it’s all smoke and mirrors, and intimidation. 

And you have spent too many years with a master of intimidation, too many years as Talia’s Left, intimidating others, to let one little girl with daddy issues and red eyes be the end of you. 

And too--there is still the scent of blood on her claws,  _ Stiles’ blood, _ and it infuriates you as it swings past your face, claws reaching as you slip neatly out of her way. 

You snarl and lunge, catch her by the throat and her claws dig into your sides, but it doesn’t matter--she can hurt you, but it doesn’t  _ matter, _ because you? 

You can  _ kill _ her. 

You see the moment she realizes, as your claws slice deep into her skin, blood welling up in a lovely necklace, and she gurgles, not quite pleading, just furious noises hampered by the blood she is choking on, her eyes so outraged you almost smile. 

She is short sighted and stupid and she dies there, on your claws, her own digging for your heart, but she’s unbowed, even at the end, fighting to the last gasping breath, and you think you like that about her. 

Her body, when it hits the wood chips of the playground, makes an ugly thudding noise, but you barely hear it over the power screaming through you. 

You can hear Erica’s heartbeat, rapidfire and excited, and some _ thing _ that feels like a bond, flaring in your mind, a bond that makes no sense since you have no pack, and then it’s all swept away under a tidal wave of power and blood washed eyes. 

You tip your head back and howl, as Kali’s alpha spark roars to life in your blood. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Who was she?” Erica asks, while you wait for Derek and Stiles. The park is quiet, and it smells of blood and you think the children tomorrow might be a little traumatized.

“Deucalion’s lieutenant. I took her place as his second, when he brought me into the pack.”

She studies you. “There’s a lot more to you than a pretty face, isn’t there, Uncle Peter.”

You smile, a small cryptic thing that makes her laugh.

A car pulls up and it draws your attention, Stiles’ scent rich with worry and then another car--and this scent is new.

It’s older, musky and layered with Stiles and it makes something in you itch to snarl, to fight, but you swallow it down as Erica’s smile goes wide. “Papa Stilinski,” she crows, bouncing away and into the older man’s arms. He flushes but presses a fatherly kiss into her hair before he pushes her gently aside and focuses on the body at hand.

“Damn, Peter,” Stiles whistles, crouching. “What did she do to piss you off?”

You watch him and say, “Hurt something important to me.”

Because you’re watching, you see the way his whole body goes still, for just a moment, before he relaxes again, and sighs, standing.

“Stiles,” the older man says, “we agreed you’d keep this shit in the preserve.”

“I do!” Stiles protests, and waves a hand at you. “You can’t blame me for what he does!”

You’d be offended, except that you’re absurdly pleased that he’s acknowledging it.

“She attacked him, Sheriff,” you say, instead of preening, and Stiles gives you a dirty look. “As long as she was in Beacon Hills, it wasn’t safe. I did what was necessary to make it safe.”

Sheriff Stilinski stares at you, blue eyes hard and narrow. “Safe for who, exactly?”

“For him. For Derek and his pack.” You shrug. “For anyone in her path, because Kali didn’t give a shit who got hurt, as long as she got what she wanted.”

The sheriff rubs his eyes and looks away. “Take care of it,” he says, voice clipped and resigned. “And explain to him how the hell things work in Beacon Hills.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says, and you ignore the twitch of arousal that submissive meek tone, those lovely words on his lips, do to you.

Erica smirks at you, and you glare.

~*~

The Sheriff goes, giving you one final searching look at he does that you mostly ignore.

Derek looms out of the dark to replace him, a scowl on his face and you nudge Erica with a shit eating grin. “Daddy is pissed,” you murmur and Derek growls.

She rolls her eyes at you and then moves to Derek.

“You should probably explain the way things work to him,” Stiles mumbles, glaring at the dead body.

“That’s fine and all, but--” Derek gestures and Stiles huffs.

Between one breath and the next, black smoke billows up and you feel the hair on your arms stand on end. Stiles is wreathed in it, a yellow glow to his eyes and skin and they come up out of it.

Derek called them Oni, and you don’t know what the hell they are or why they answer to him. But watching them converge on Kali’s dead body, the way smoke billows and the scent of nerves on Derek’s puppies--it all stirs together into something hot and hungry in your gut.

The thin white scars on his arms stand out in the yellow glow and you know what you promised--that you would wait.

That you would let him come to you.

But you _want_.

You want him, want to see every place he scarred his body to bear the weight of magic, want to know why he’s familiar with memory stealing, want to know everything about him and the long years you were away.

The mist fades and one of the Oni is watching you, cold mask expressionless, but intent, and it takes a single step forward, smoke rippling and steel glinting.

Stiles snarls something in Japanese, and it jerks the Oni to a stop, pulls a pained noise from it, before the whole thing dissipates.

The park goes back to barely lit black and you’re only a little surprised to see the body is gone and the blood--it’s vanished like it was never there.

Stiles is staring at you, white faced and furious. “Do you have an actual death wish?” he snarls, and you stare back, unimpressed. “You came out here to _bait_ her, and now you’re taunting my Oni? What the actual fuck, Peter?”

“I didn’t do anything to your Oni,” you point out. “As for Kali--she was dead the moment she touched you.”

A breathless sort of silence settles over the park, and you realize what you said, only when you see Erica staring at you, her eyes wide.

“You--” Stiles’ voice is high and uneven, “you don’t get to fucking decide that.”

“And yet,” you murmur, mocking. Stiles snarls, and that yellow glow builds along his skin.

“Stop it,” Derek snaps, reaching out and shaking him. He’s careful to not touch the nape of Stiles’ neck, and still--Stiles flinches away from him, glaring over at the alpha. “Arguing about this isn’t going to change what happened. Go home, I’ll talk to him.”

For a moment, you think Stiles will argue, will keep on pushing. Instead he huffs and storms away, and Erica gives you a final smirk before she trails him.

It leaves you standing across from Derek, Boyd a few feet away and you are suddenly too tired to deal with your nephew, with the mess that is Beacon Hills and Stiles Stilinski.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, and you laugh.

“I have no fucking clue,” you answer and it’s the unsettling truth. You always have a plan.

You have plans for your plans, plot and scheme like it’s as easy as breathing, and you had a plan, when you came here.

Beacon Hills is your home, and you are comfortable here. You knew every nook and cranny, every hollow and tree and hidden cave in the preserve, and every place in town to hide, and how to mask your scent in the natural surroundings.

It was a long shot.

You knew that when you stole the claws from Deuc’s safe and ran, but it was the best plan you had--and even if you didn’t survive, there was no way in hell Deuc would ever manage to breach the Hale vaults.

You had a plan, and it didn’t include Derek or his pack.

It didn’t include a Stiles that was dangerous and intoxicating and infuriating.

You had a plan, and Derek is staring at you now and Kali’s blood is dry on your claws, and you have no fucking clue what the hell you’re doing.

~*~

Boyd goes home. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he goes, and Derek sits in the front seat of his Camaro, and you sit at his side.

You think about the magic that ripples off of Stiles, the way none of Derek’s pack of puppies seem disturbed by violence and invading alphas. You think about the Sheriff and the way he was completely unfazed by the dead werewolf in his park and the easy manipulation of mountain ash you’ve seen since you arrived here, and the scars on Stiles’ body.

You think about the ancient _thing_ you see, sometimes, in Stiles’ gaze and the way he smiles and it doesn’t feel like Stiles, it feels like something... _other._

You think about the Beast’s claws and Enis’ head and the Oni staring at you, threatening and impassive, and the fact that none of this seems even remotely unusual to anyone here, and how your _plan_ seems so fucking ridiculous it barely bears mentioning.

You think about Stiles, the taste of him electric and alive on your tongue and the regret in his tone as he pushed you away and Death’s wailing woman who stands as emissary to this strange pack.

You look out at Beacon Hills while your nephew sits at your side and you whisper, “Derek, what the hell happened while I was gone?”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Derek takes you to a bar. 

You eye him as he pulls up and he shrugs. “I don’t like thinking about this,” he says. “I never talk about it--we lived through it, so there’s never been a need. But if I have to--and I do, you deserve to know what you’re dealing with--I’m going to be buzzed while I do so.” 

It seems fair enough, so you slip out and follow your nephew into the bar. 

There’s a familiar older man behind the counter, and you recognize him a moment before you hear the wet snarl filling up the room. 

A clawed hand is at your throat and you think--for a moment, just one--that you could kill him. 

You could rip the life from your nephew and kill the man whose family slaughtered yours. 

It would be so fucking easy. 

“Uncle Peter,” Derek says, pleading and you blink back to yourself. 

You glance at him, startled to see a thousand shades of green and gold staring back, knowing and sad. Guilt sours in your gut and you stumble back a step. “Derek--”

“Stop. Just. Sit down. I’ll explain.” 

You do. You’re not pleased but it's the very least you can do for your nephew and you did ask for an explanation. 

“Chris, can we get a pitcher?” Derek throws at Argent before he leads you to a corner booth. 

“You trust him,” is all you say and Derek shrugs. 

“I dont always like him, but he's given me reason to trust him. He doesn't hunt in my territory, and he keeps other hunters at bay.” His expression goes wry. “And my emissary would carve my guts out if I hurt him.”

That makes you pause and Derek shifts. “Chris isn't a threat. And he's part of this.” 

You sit back, ignoring the beer in front of you--Derek might trust a hunter but you feel no such compunction. 

“How?”

“Chris and his daughter came to town because of the nemeton. She met with Stiles first--he’s mistaken as my emissary a lot. He trusted her and I trust him, so they stayed, on a trial basis. And it worked out. He helped us handle a vampire nest that wanted to take up residence here, and a succubus. And then the darach hit town.” 

There's something in his tone that makes your skin crawl. “How bad was it?” 

“Four dead before we realized there was a pattern. Seven before we realized what we were dealing with. She killed twelve, always in sets of three, before we realized who it was. And she kidnapped another three before we could react.” he looks away, something flickering in his eyes. “She needed certain types of people for a ritual--virgins, warriors, scholars, healers. The last three were guardians. And she took Stiles’ father, Chris. And me.” 

You stare. The guardians of beacon hills, the supernatural and human alike. It was a good move. She would have drawn immense power from them. 

“Stiles, Lydia, and Allison did a ritual with the help of Deaton.” You bite down on the snarl that wants to escape at that and Derek gives you a knowing look. “They were surrogate sacrifices.” 

You're pale, heartbeat racing. The idea of Stiles risking himself like that-- it's terrifying. “What anchored them?” 

“We did. Need and necessity, and Stiles’ spark, all of it anchored them here. It was enough--but there was a complication.” 

“His oni.” 

Derek nods, a pained look on his face. “The ritual the darach was working--it woke the nemeton, and there was something trapped there. And the sacrifice left them vulnerable.” 

Your temper snaps, suddenly, and you lean across the table. “Stop speaking in riddles, nephew and tell me what the fuck happened.” 

Derek stares at him, his eyes hard. “A nogitsune possessed Stiles. We didn’t--I knew something was wrong, but it was so damn good at keeping Stiles on the surface, I couldn’t get a read on it. And then we started hearing about attacks, bombs in mailboxes and a couple businesses downtown.” 

You’re stomach turns. Not at the violence--you’re a werewolf, an alpha, and spent years at Deucalion’s side. Violence isn’t disturbing, is almost soothing in a way. 

You are only upset that Stiles had to bear the weight of those bombings, that he carries the weight of something else’s actions. 

You know Stiles enough to realize he does. He would feel guilty for it, even knowing intellectually it wasn’t his fault.

“What happened?” 

“Stiles went off the rails. Chaos, kidnappings, three more bombings. He took control of my betas and that was a special kind of hell. A kitsune that had fought with the nogitsune before summoned the Oni, and we thought they’d kill him--but the nogitsune took possession of them. It took a wound that should have killed Stiles--but he had what he wanted and Stiles was little more than an afterthought at that point.”

He glances at Chris and you watch him, carefully. “Stiles was still there--under the nogitsune. I took Lydia inside his head once--” You let out an involuntary whine at that and Derek gives you a wry look. “He had a plan. A good plan.” 

“He was a child,” you say sharply. “What did you you let him do?”

Derek looks at you and there's pity in his eyes. “Stiles hasn't been a child for a very long time, Uncle. The nogitsune sure as hell didn't change that.” 

You quiet and Derek sighs. “Stiles thought he could use the spark. Burn out the nogitsune. But he waited--I was worried, Lydia thought there was another way. And while we waited, the nogitsune killed Allison.”

You flinch at that, gaping at your nephew who stares back grimly. 

“Stiles burned through the nogitsune before she was even dead. He had traces leftover--he knew he would, knew it was impossible to eradicate completely--magic and spells and knowledge and he  thought if he moved fast enough, he could save her.”

“He was too late,” you murmur and he nods, something defeated in his eyes. 

“It almost killed him. The backlash from burning out the nogitsune--he barely held onto his sanity. There were shards of memories and knowledge, things he shouldn't know that were driving him to the brink of sanity. There was the wound--where the nogitsune had cut open his gut to take control of the Oni.” Derek let out a shuddering breath and whispers, “He almost died. And the boy he was, the  _ kid _ he still was sometimes--it did die.” 

You look at Chris Argent, at the stooped tired set to his shoulders. “Does he tolerate Stiles?” 

_ Is he a threat? _ It's the question you aren't asking and Derek reaches out, touches your wrist. 

“He doesn't blame Stiles. No one does. It wasn't  _ Stiles _ . It was the nogitsune.”

You give him a doubtful look and he smiles, sadly. “Stiles didn't believe us, either. He left, as soon as the hospital discharged him. Spent almost a year in the bayou training with a blood witch.” 

“He tried to bring her back,” you realize. 

Derek nods. “We finally caught on to what he was doing and Chris and I dragged him home. I took some of his memories.”

You snarl at that. There is too much you don't remember, from your time as Talia's Left and from your years with Deuc--the idea of Stiles living through the same is infuriating. 

“He asked for it, Uncle. It was the only way he’d agree to come back. The memories the nogitsune left, and the memories of what it did with his body were destroying him. Taking some of that--integrating the knowledge that was left--it saved him. It kept him alive, and I would take every memory he has of the supernatural, to do that. You, me, Lydia--all of it. If keeping him alive meant wiping him to a blank slate and sending him a thousand miles away, I would do it in a heartbeat.” 

There’s brutal honesty in his gaze and you shiver, watching him. “He would never forgive you.” 

“Which is the only reason I didn’t,” Derek admits. “And what we did--it was enough. But Stiles isn’t the boy you left behind. He’s a powerful Spark.” 

“A powerful Spark with the knowledge of a nogitsune,” you murmur and feel a spike of desire you aren’t even surprised when Derek gives you a disgruntled glare. You ignore it and ask instead, “Is he dangerous?” 

Derek smiles at that, and there’s nothing warm or comforting in it. “Stiles has always been dangerous, Uncle Peter. Now? Now he’s got claws.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life got super busy, friends, but I finished my book and now I get to update things!! Thanks for your patience and I hope this was worth the wait. <3


	11. Chapter 11

The week after Kali’s death is quiet.

You go back to your apartment, and ignore all the incoming texts. Derek’s puppies think the threat has passed and life resumes the normal rhythm of Beacon Hills. You aren’t sure if Derek agrees or if he’s just waiting out whatever comes next.

You don’t ask because you aren’t sure you want to know.

You know what comes next, and you aren’t sure you’ll survive it. There is a reason you ran from Deuc, instead of staying to challenge him.

It took you years, to learn that Deuc wasn't just someone to respect and be careful around. To realize that he was someone to fear.

He's charming, and beautiful and he loved you. You think he loved you as much as he could love anyone, and maybe that was the real problem. You didn't want him, but you were lonely and alone, and there was a part of you--the part of you that belonged to Stiles, that raged when you ran from a sixteen year old boy--that wanted to be loved.

That saw the way he looked at you, the careful way he courted you, and revelled in it.

You couldn't have Stiles and maybe if you had Deuc you could convince yourself it didn't matter.

Stiles didn't matter.

You hate yourself for it, on your worst days.

Most of the time, you are too pragmatic to hate yourself. It happened. It was--is--a horrible thing you did to yourself and to a horrible person, and maybe worst of all, to Stiles.

But it's done and you've never been one to apologize, even to yourself.

But eventually, because you are not an idiot completely, saw him, for what he truly is.

A mad dog that needs, desperately, to be put down.

By then you were past the delusion of love, and Deuc was so firmly entrenched in it, you sometimes wondered if he remembered he was playing you. That he was using you in a long game to get to the Hale vaults.

It was never about the Argents, never about revenge or even attraction--all Deuc ever wanted was access to the lore and legends you and your family had carefully cultivated.

The claws of La Bete were useless, without the knowledge of what the hell to do with them.

You told Deuc--often and loudly--that even with the secrets held by the Hales, he would never be able to use the claws. That it was a myth and a lie and Deuc happily ignored you.

Sometimes, when he was less pleased, he beat you, ripped into you with teeth and claws before he fucked you, and you try very hard not to think of those times.

You stay in your shitty den and ignore your nephew and his pack because you know that Deuc is insane, and insane people don't quit because a few bodies drop.

And because Deuc terrifies you and you never wanted to bring him down on Derek or his pack.

Because you would die, to keep Deuc away from Stiles.

 

~*~

 

Erica has no sense of boundaries and less of propriety, and arrives at your den with a bag of Thai and a big grin as she nudges her way inside. "Hey, Uncle Bad Touch."

"Darling. Did you get in very much trouble?"

She shrugs and her lips twist into a grin. "Stiles calmed him down."

You bite down on the snarl that wants to rise up in your throat, and she watches you for a long moment, bright eyes assessing before she hums in her throat and proceeds to open up the food and dump some on plates. She shoves one at you and then settles in the corner of your couch.

"What are you doing?"

"Eating," she says, the _duh_ so obvious in her voice it makes your lips twitch.

"I see that, yes. But why are you doing that _here_?"

She shrugs and something serious flickers in her scent. "You deserve pack, Peter. And you don't have one, and I know I'm not--I adore my alpha and my pack. But I can be your friend, can't I?"

"It's dangerous," you say, helplessly, unable to tell this beautiful, strangely vulnerable girl, to leave.

She smiles and it's all teeth and makes you laugh. "I'm not afraid of him."

You take your plate and bitch when she shoves her toes under your thigh and think to yourself--she should be.

They all should be.

 

~*~

 

Derek allows you space for a week, before he slams on the door of your apartment and inside, glaring. He inhales and you can see the darkening of his eyes when he catches Erica's scent, but he doesn't say anything about that, yet. Instead he glares and says, "If you're going to be in Beacon Hills, you have to at least make an effort."

"An effort to what, nephew? And please do tell--am I speaking to my nephew or the Alpha of Beacon Hills, right now?"

"Why are you hiding?"

You sniff, offended. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You used to lie better," he says, grinning suddenly and you huff. "Is it because of what I told you about Stiles?"

You blink. "Of course not. That--why on earth would it be that?"

"Because you vanished after I told you his story. And before that you were all but courting him."

"He doesn't want to be courted by me," you say absently and you shake your head. "Derek, it's not over with Deucalion. I killed his Second, and Stiles killed his soldiers. But Deuc isn't going to roll over and give up. I don't--I don't want you or your pack anywhere near me when he come looking."

"Because you think you can kill him?" Derek says, slowly and you shake your head.

Even with Kali's power to supplement your own, you aren't sure of that. "Because I don't want him to hurt you," you admit. "I don't want him to hurt any of you."

"Peter," Derek says, his voice pained and you laugh. shaking your head as you stand. "You can't protect us."

"I can. I won't let you help me."

"How are you going to stop me?" Derek asks, and he doesn't sound challenging--just curious. It's amusing to hear that curiosity in your nephew's voice, familiar even now.

"I can leave Beacon Hills. None of you could find me, if I didn't want to be found."

It's a harsh threat, but one you would carry out in an instant, if it meant keeping the puppies and Derek and _Stiles_ safe.

He stares at you, disappointment in his eyes but he finally nods and stands. "Stiles could," he says and you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"Stiles could find you. Stiles has always been able to find you, Uncle."

 

~*~

 

You expect him to come to Beacon Hills. You expect him to find you. Deuc is terrifying and several steps past sane, and self-preservation says you should run--but he is also painfully predictable, and you know that he'll chase you.

Still, there is only so long that you can live on the edge of fear, hyper aware, before you relax and as the weeks pass and he doesn't find you--you begin to relax.

To breath.

To think, that maybe he won't. Maybe he realized jus thow insane he is and will turn his madness elsewhere.

And that, of course, is when he arrives in Beacon Hills.

 

~*~

 

You are sipping your coffee, and reading a newspaper, the paper thin and wrinkling under your fingers, when he steps into the coffeeshop.

His cane clacks lightly against the floor and you allow yourself the luxury of watching him.

Deucalion certainly won't notice.

He looks a little thinner than he was when you left Boston, a tightness to the grip on his cane that makes you want to squirm. He moves deftly through the tables and comes to sit across from you.

"Deucalion. Bit far from home aren't you?"

"I could say the same to you, Peter," he says, easily. "But then, I suspect that's part of the point in your relocation, is it not?"

You lean back and study this man who shared your bed and life for so many years. "What do you want, Deuc?"

"What I wanted to begin with--I want the power of the Beast."

"It's never going to happen. We both know that."

"I know that you can make this much easier than you are choosing. You can give me what I've asked for. Come back and--"

"And what? Destroy the hunters, take over healthy happy packs? What then, Deuc? What is the end of all this?" you demand.

"The end is no one can hurt us," Deuc snaps. "The end is we're too strong to ever be vulnerable. You know what the end is--you know what it's like to be hurt."

You close your eyes and force yourself to breath. "Does it ever bother you, to use my dead family like ammunition?"

"Not if it gets me what I want," Deuc answers, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

"What happened to you?" you murmur. "I remember you with Talia, Deuc, and you weren't like this then. You were sane, you had a strong healthy pack--you didn't have this driving need for power. What the hell happened to you?"

"What happens to all of us," Deucalion says, quietly and then sighs. "Help me, Peter."

"I left," you say, and you finish the coffee, standing. "I left and I don't know how to make it any clearer to you--it's over. You want some grand dream of ruling the packs and the hunters and, fuck, I don't know. The humans? That's fine--but you'll do it with the Beast, and you'll do it without me."

"I can force your hand," Deuc says, as you start to walk away and you freeze. "You ran straight to Derek. To his darling little pack. I could give you reason to help me."

"Threatening them won't make me work with you."

"Killing him might."

You don't snarl, but it's a very close thing. You feel your claws lengthen, digging into the soft skin of your palm.

"Killing him will only end with me killing you. In no way does it guarantee my cooperation or assistance."

"Do you think you could? Kill me?"

"I think I killed your Second without batting an eye. You learned a lot about me, when I slept in your bed--but that goes two ways, Deuc. Maybe you should remember that."

He doesn't stop you, this time,  and you make it to your car before you feel the shift prickle over you.

You make it to the end of the road, and then you start shaking and you breathe out a low, heartfelt _“Shit_.”

You fumble for your phone, not even sure what you're doing, before it's in your hands and you dial his number by memory, only driving forward when you hear the phone ringing.

"What's up, Peter?" Stiles says, and you exhale, close your eyes briefly.

He's safe.

"Where is Derek? The pack? Have your wards been triggered?"

"No--everyone is safe. Why?"

"Deucalion is here," you say and he sighs. "He threatened Derek, Stiles."

There's a sharp inhale, and then, "Fuck. Ok. Ok. I'll get everyone here."

You nod and begin to hang up and his voice stops you. It's gentle, hesitant. "Hey, are _you_ ok?"

You can't remember the last time someone cared enough to ask that. Someone who wanted to know for no ulterior motive, who only cared because they were something close to pack.

You have to leave.

You know you have to, have known since Stiles pushed you away in Derek's kitchen. You can't stay here, so close, when he doesn't want you. It's torture.

"Peter?" he prompts, gentle and earnest.

You breathe, and you lie. "I'm fine, sweet boy."


	12. Chapter 12

 

You go to the vault first. It’s time you don’t have, but it’s necessary, and in the end, it doesn’t matter. 

Deucalion will find you.

He will kill you. 

It’s not a question of  _ if _ but  _ when _ and you’re tired. 

You only want to make sure he doesn’t hurt Derek or Stiles, when you’re gone. 

It stings, though. Standing in a place where you so often stood with your sister, ransacking the archives your family had spent centuries building. 

Taking all of that and reducing to a dozen USB drives and encrypted files--it hurts. 

You shove it aside. So much of what has been necessary over the years has hurt. 

You drop the USBs in a glass jar and look at the books, tossed aside with little care or regard. 

Some of them are as old as the Hales, ancient and seeped in their blood. Some are spell books written on human skin and covered in black magic. They are ancient and precious, some the only remaining copies. 

It feels like burning one of the last members of your family and your hands shake as you pick up the black leather bound book you can’t bring yourself to add to the pile. It’s embossed with the Hale triskelion, the one you wear on your hip and Derek wears on his back, the one you dream of seeing on Stiles, and it holds every pack member the Hale ever claimed as their own. Born and bitten and bonded--they are all here. 

You can’t add it to the others. Not this. It would be harmless, even in Deuc’s hands, holds value to no one but you and Derek because everyone in the black bound book are dead. 

You and your nephew and this pile of ancient books are all that remains of the once great Hales. 

And you’re going to destroy another small piece of that legacy. 

It makes your stomach turn, as you pick up the lighter. 

If tears stand in your eyes, watching the flames lick over the priceless books--there is no one here to see them but you. 

 

~*~

 

You’re in the apartment for less than thirty minutes. You knew you weren’t staying. Even as you sprawled out in the shitty apartment that would be home, you knew you wouldn’t stay. You leave one thing of value behind, a letter to Derek and Stiles, as you grab the bag you never bothered to unpack, and then you go. 

You don’t think about Derek sitting in your apartment, and the hopeful gleam in his eyes. 

You don’t think about Erica’s smirk and the way she shoved into your life uninvited. 

You don’t think about Stiles, or the way he tasted under your lips, that day in Derek’s kitchen, the way he had sounded when you kissed him. 

You don’t think about everything you’re leaving, the future you’re burning to ash. 

If you do this--and there is no real choice, you were always going to do  _ this _ \--you won’t have a second chance. Stiles and Derek won’t welcome you back again. 

You think that hurts more than burning your family’s legacy, and both are poetically just, aren’t they? 

You shake your maudlin thoughts and pull the door closed behind you, and leave your shitty apartment behind. 

 

~*~

 

No one stops you. 

You insist, privately, that it’s because they don’t know, that you aren’t giving them a chance to stop you. 

You try not to believe it’s because they don’t care. 

Derek cares. You know he does. Know that Erica will be furious, when she realizes that you’ve left. 

You shiver, thinking about Stiles reaction. You don’t let yourself consider that he won’t care. That is too painful, even for you. 

You get to the county line and something in you tightens as you look at the cruiser pulled across the road, lights flashing. Stiles is leaning against it, and he isn’t glowing or wreathed in shadows, so you think that’s probably a small victory. You stop and he pushes off the cruiser, as you slip out to stand in the road. 

“You’re running,” he says, flatly and you incline your head. There’s no point pretending this is anything but exactly what it is. “What the  _ fuck _ , Peter? Why?” 

“You didn’t think I was staying, did you?” you say, your voice empty. “I left Beacon Hills a long time ago. You can’t possibly think I wanted to come back for good.” 

“I have no idea what you want,” Stiles snaps. “I never did. That’s half the goddamn problem.” 

You bristle. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Stiles digs his fingers in his hair and you almost flinch when you see the tell tale golden glow sparking off his fingertips. “It means I don't know what you want! I've never known what you want!” 

You gape at him. “I--Stiles, I kissed you!” 

“Yeah and now you're running again. Seems to be your MO.” 

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “Is that what this is about? Me leaving after you kissed me?” 

He flushes and you think you need to step back. That neither of you should be having this conversation. 

Or maybe it's long overdue. 

“You were sixteen, Stiles.”

“I know how fucking old I was.”

You ignore him, continuing, “And I was thirty and reeling from the death of my pack and you were a  _ child.” _

“You were a coward,” he says and you flinch. 

Even knowing he isn't wrong, it stings. 

“You ran from a kid who was in love with you and now, what? You'll run because I can't be what you want? Fuck you, Peter. You  _ left _ . You don't get to come back and expect everything to be on your fucking terms!” 

He's furious and panting and there's something--you stare at him and try to make sense of the pain buzzing in your chest and the fury and guilt and fear. “He threatened Derek. He threatened the  _ pack. _ ” 

You choke down,  _ he threatened you.  _

“Then we deal with it together,” Stiles snaps. “Like a pack.” 

You laugh and he shoves into your space, gets a fistful of your shirt and snarls. “You weren't here, asshole. You have no idea what we went through.” 

You stare at him and he laughs. “Oh you know about Alli and the nogitsune. But that's one chapter in a five book series, dude. And I  _ know _ we're better together. We survive together.”

_ A wolf alone dies.  _

You know the stories, put down the omegas that slipped into Beacon Hills for Talia, and you wonder how long it will be before some well meaning alpha sends their Left to take your head. 

You almost want it. 

You aren't sure why you're fighting so hard to survive when the only thing you want is glaring at you. 

“I can't be your pack,” you say honestly. Too tired to censure yourself or maybe you just want him to know. “I can't watch you submit to my nephew without wanting to rip his throat out. I know what you said and I won't push--but I can't  _ see _ it.”

Stiles smiles then, and its honey bright and sultry, the eager boy in your classroom grown into a calculating man that you want in your bed. 

“You want me to submit to you, Alpha?” he purrs and you feel yourself harden, from that word on his lips. 

You shiver and stare at him and he leans in, almost a kiss when he whispers, “Stay here and earn it.”

He turns and saunters back to the cruiser, and his delectable ass captivates you. 

You are already following him before it registered what just happened and you shake your head, amused and pleased amd unaccountably turned on by how that little shit just played you.

“I won't stay if he comes for you,” you say and Stiles glances back. 

“And everytime you run, I'll drag you back.” His gaze softens and he smiles at you. “It's time to come home, Peter.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter burning the books in this chapter made me physically sick. I had to call my best friend and be like, 'isn't there anyone he can kill instead??'   
> Those poor books.


	13. Chapter 13

 

Derek is waiting when you follow Stiles into the apartment, and his eyes flicker red at you. 

You stare back, impassively. You won’t apologize, not for what you destroyed in the vaults, and not for trying to leave. 

You won’t apologize for trying to keep them safe. 

Stiles glances between you and his alpha and huffs. "Can you two get along while we sort this out, or do I need to let you punch it out first?" 

Derek glares at him. "I don't care--Peter can do whatever the hell he wants," he grumbles. 

"Your face is doing something completely different than your mouth," Stiles says, dryly. 

"Being here endangers you and your pack," you say, simply, like that is the only explanation you need to give. 

It is. 

Derek is a born wolf, and your only surviving blood relative. 

Of all the people who should understand preserving family, Derek should be it. 

He doesn't look like her cares, and you turn toward the spare room that smells like you, still. 

You ignore the murmured conversation, until you hear Derek's defeated sigh. "He's going to hurt you, again." 

"Dude, we talked about this years ago. It's my choice." 

Derek doesn't respond to that but you can imagine the fierce eyebrows, and general air of disapproval. 

It's almost enough to make you emerge from you room just to see it. 

 

~*~

 

"We've got a problem," Lydia says, and you blink at her.

"That's hardly news," you say when no one else does. 

Derek gives you a glare you're pretty sure is supposed to silence you and Lydia ignores you altogether. 

"What kind of problem?" 

"Well, Deucalion is right. Kind of," she frowns. 

"We can't resurrect the Beast--he doesn't even have a body," Stiles says. "But we have the knowledge and magical how-to to harness his power. Deuc wouldn't need to resurrect him, because he can just take the power." 

"He needs the spells, and those are rather difficult to come by at the moment," you point out and Derek glares. 

"Don't think we won't discuss that," Lydia says sharply. "Those books were priceless." 

You know. 

But they were not worth Derek's life. They weren't worth Stiles. If burning them and the power they held would protect them--you look away, feigning boredom, and Stiles huffs. 

"It kismet that he came here," Stiles says, and both you and Derek look at him, at the change in his voice. 

"Why?" 

Stiles smiles then, and it's gentle, almost sweet. "He needs a blood mage to perform the spell." 

 

~*~

 

You sit on the balcony, and watch clouds scuttling across the dark sky. 

There’s been too much shouting and no resolution. You wish it surprised you. 

“Does it always go like this?” you ask, and Lydia steps out of the shadows.

You don’t know what to think of the little banshee that serves as emissary and warms a hunter’s bed. You do know you dislike her because of the way Stiles lights up, softly affectionate with her.

“Yes,” she admits. “But when push comes to shove, the pack comes together.” 

“Then why bother with this?” you wonder, waving a hand to encapsulate the entirety of the pack and nonsense that was tonight. 

“Because it’s what pack does. And because if we don’t, Stiles handles the problem, and he doesn’t deserve more blood on his hands.” 

You turn that over in your head, and then, “I could go with him. I could take him somewhere else.” 

_ Somewhere Stiles isn’t.  _

Lydia studies him and her gaze is softly pitying. “No, Peter. You can’t.” 

 

~*~

 

“No, look,” Stiles is saying when you walk into the kitchen, “It has to be tomorrow.” 

“You don’t kn--” 

“Derek,” Stiles snaps. “I’m the mage. The spell has to be done on a Worm Moon, because it’s rebirth. It has to be done on a super moon, because the strength of the moon. And it has to be a blood moon because it’s blood magic. That’s tomorrow--there’s a reason this is happening  _ now.”  _

“We could burn the nails, couldn’t we?” Erica says, absently. 

“There’s a difference in burning the ancient books Peter preserved digitally and burning the remains of the first werewolf,” Stiles says, his voice tight. 

“If it keeps you safe, the sacrifice is worth it,” you mutter into your coffee, and the entire pack goes still. You glance up to see Stiles watching you, and the other looking away, the air thick with tension. You don’t look away and give him a mocking smile. “You dragged me back here, sweet boy. I won’t pretend anymore.” 

Stiles snorts, and looks down, the moment shattering. 

The windows shatter with it, and you shift without even thinking about it, snarling as Deucalion and two alphas you’ve never seen burst into the room. 

It happens fast--so fast, the kind of blitzkrieg attack you taught Deuc. The two alphas go for Derek, and you hear him roar, furious, as they take him to the ground. Boyd snarls, shifting but he’s pinned behind Derek and Isaac is braced in front of Lydia, protecting the Emissary, and you realize abruptly that these children that you have despaired over--they fight well, moving naturally together. 

Erica growls, and lunges, and you shout, a second too late as Deuc catches her by the throat and throws her up and into the wall. 

Boyd roars, shifting forward and one of the two alphas shifts away from Derek. The beta fights well, and for a moment, you think he’ll get the upper hand. 

Then the one pinning Derek twists his hand, and the alpha whines, high and pained and Boyd--Boyd falters, glancing to his alpha. 

You huff, and shift, moving liquid quick across the room and catching the stranger alpha by the leg before he can sink his claws in Boyd’s soft, unprotected belly. You swing him high and hard, into the wall, and take a savage sort of pleasure in the way the plaster cracks, and his bones shatter. 

He snarls, but it’s weak, more reflexive than threatening and you smile at Deuc. “I took down your Second, Deuc. Did you really think your foot soldiers could do better?” 

Deuc smirks at you and he shrugs. “Canon fodder, darling. Every general needs some.” 

You rip out the alpha’s throat while he’s still shouting protest, and straighten, shaking the blood off  your claws onto his corpse. 

Derek’s going to need to replace the carpet. 

“I taught you that,” you say and Deuc shrugs. 

“You leaving doesn’t mean the things you taught the pack no longer hold value.” 

You laugh and glance at Derek. He’s still pinned, and you can see the pain written in the lines of his face, can see the way Erica’s face is going red, her breath gurgling. 

“What happens now,” you ask, almost bored, and Deuc smiles.

“Now,” he says, patiently, “you give me want. And we go home.” 

For a moment--just one--you think about it. About going with him, about giving him what he wants and walking away with him. 

“Will you leave them alone?” you ask, and your voice doesn’t shake, but your heart is pounding. 

“I don’t  _ want _ them,” Deuc says, patiently, and you flick a look at Stiles. 

Deuc doesn’t know he needs Stiles. 

Not yet. 

Maybe. 

Stiles is watching you, and you see his eyes narrow, see the furious outrage, before you turn back to Deuc. 

“Fine. Let her go. I’ll go with you.” 

Deuc’s eyes widen and Derek breathes your name and you hear Stiles spit a curse before shadows  _ shove _ out, the Oni appearing so quickly you’re caught in one’s path. It’s hands on your are icy cold, so cold it burns, and you blink at it, the frostbite blue on your wrist. 

Deucalion’s heartbeat goes haywire, and you look up to see Erica collapsed on the floor, her eyes an outraged gold and Stiles--

Stiles is standing between his Oni, and his hands are  _ inside _ Deucalion’s chest. 

“He isn’t  _ yours _ ,” he snarls, and you shudder at the rage seething in his voice. “And you  _ can’t _ have him.” 

Deuc chokes out a noise that Stiles ignores, his lips curled into a furious smirk as he rips his hand back and yanks. 

The heart beats, twice, in Stiles hand, before Deucalion hits the ground, and you hear Isaac retching in the background. You don’t look, don’t care how or who deals with the lone remaining alpha--your gaze is glued to Stiles, bloody to his elbows, and shaking with fury as he stares at you. 

There’s something in his eyes, something that you haven’t seen since you came back to Beacon Hills and you want to step closer, want to hold him still and examine it, pick it apart from every angle. 

Stiles drops the heart on Deuc’s cooling corpse, and leaves, without saying a word. 

It’s only Derek’s hand on your shoulder that keeps you from chasing after him. 

“Give him space, Uncle,” Derek says softly and you look at him, disbelieving. He forces a smile, blood still staining his lips, wavering in place. “He’ll come back.” 

“You don’t know that,” you argue. 

Derek nods his head, and you huff, shoving a shoulder under his as he almost topples from the tiny motion. 

“Yes, I do,” he mumbles. “He’ll come back. You’re here. Where the hell else would he go?” 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

There are two dead alphas in your nephew's apartment and the scent of magic still fading air and you are tired.

You are so tired.

You leave the dead to the puppies, and stay with Derek, forcing him down in his bed with an angry snarl and you aren’t sure if he listens because he’s too injured to argue or if it’s because he remembers the years when you were the only parent he had, and listening to you was instinct and how he stayed alive.

You hope that it’ neither, that it’s because he trusts you, finally, again.

You can hear the others cleaning up in the living room, and Lydia’s voice, crisp and sharp and warmer than you’ve heard it before, as she calls Argent.

Idly, you wonder if they know how to get rid of bodies, but you think, a brief flash, of the way they fought together, flowing in and around each other and you think they probably are no strangers to getting rid of the bodies.

You want to chase Stiles. The magic is fading away, draining out of the air and leaving a prickle of awareness against your skin, and you want to leave, to chase him down and see that rage in his eyes again.

He killed.

He killed and you are not so stupid to think it was for any reason other than you.

Deuc was a problem, and he had to die--but Stiles ripped his heart out and did it in a possessive fury that makes your breath shudder, makes your palms itch and your fangs lengthen.

“He lied,” you murmur. “When he said he didn’t want me, he lied.”

“Did he?” Derek grits out and you turn back, looking at him. He’s still bleeding and it makes you frown.

“Did he what?” you snap, standing and stalking into the bathroom to retrieve a wet cloth to wipe his mouth. You slice through the remains of his shirt with a claw and glare at the still healing wound on his chest as you clean away the blood.

“Did he actually say he didn’t want you?”

You scoff--and then you freeze.

_I can’t offer you more than friendship._

“That slippery little shit,” you breath, and Derek huffs, face twisted up in pain and you’re almost petty enough to go and rub it in.

“Fucking took you long enough,” he grumbles and you throw the wet towel in his face.

 

~*~

 

Stiles doesn’t come back, and Erica attaches herself to you, a particularly stubborn barnacle that refuses to let you chase after the wayward spark.

She doesn’t even blink when you snarl in her face, just yawns and steals your egg roll, grinning when you give her an offended glare.

So you wait.

You wait and you think.

About Stiles, and everything he’s done since you returned.

He sought you out, that first time in the grocery store and you think, for the first time, that maybe it was not a coincidence, running into him.

He took care of you, protected you, flaunted his power, something he knew you would find intoxicating. He’s kept his distance, but you remember the way he had surged into that kiss, the hard line of his cock against your thigh before he pushed you away.

And that’s the problem, the place where things don’t add up.

Because he pushed you away.

He wants you--even if you know that want is different from the raw want he’d had when he was sixteen and kissing you in your classroom. It’s a settled, deeper thing, but he watches you. He watches you and protects you, and his smile, when you are blatantly possessive should have _told_ you.

But he said no.

It doesn’t make sense.

Stiles doesn’t make sense, but then Stiles has never made sense, so you aren’t sure why you think now will be the moment he changes that.

 

~*~

 

“Does everyone know?”

“That Stiles is gone on you?” Erica asks, not looking away from the TV she’s flicking through, a frown on her pretty face. “We’ve always known. Derek has shit taste in lovers, Beacon Hills is a cesspool, and Stiles loves you.”

You inhale sharply and Erica finally looks back at you, her gaze sharp and somehow sympathetic, and you aren’t sure what the hell to do with that.

 

~*~

 

“What are you going to do?” Derek asks. He’s healed up from the attack, and you are in the preserve with him, retrieving the claws of La Bete from Stiles’ hiding spot.

It has been four days and you haven’t seen or scented him, and it’s slowly driving you insane.

“He said he can’t offer more than friendship,” you say and Derek eyes you, dubiously. “He dragged me back here when I would leave and he killed Deuc, when he tried to claim me. Stiles words and actions aren’t lining up.”

Derek is quiet, and you sigh, roll your neck. There’s a gathering tension there that makes you want to snarl, because why the fuck does a werewolf have backaches?

Derek asks, again, his voice low and sympathetic, “What are you going to do?”

 

~*~

 

You go home and you wait.

For all that he has changed and you have, there is this--a certainty that Stiles will find you. That he will come to you.

You clean up your shitty apartment, and consider the wisdom of finding someplace better.

You read books and watch TV with Erica.

You contact a few clients regarding rare supernatural artifacts.

You avoid Derek’s sharp, assessing stare.

You wait.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles returns to Beacon Hills, you feel it.

You see the way Isaac and Boyd shudder, the way Derek’s tight shoulders drop, and you know--even if you couldn’t feel magic buzzing against your skin, you would know.

He’s home.

“I’ll be going now,” you say and Isaac makes a questioning noise in his throat that you ignore, shrugging on your coat. Derek is watching you, and there’s worry in his eyes, bright and shiny as a the sea.

You wonder if it’s for you, or Stiles.

It doesn’t matter, truly. What comes next--

You go home.

To the shitty apartment that you have still not bothered to unpack, to the place that feels like a bolt hole and not a den, to a place you are, vaguely, ashamed of.

And you wait for him to come to you.

  



	15. Chapter 15

There is, you think, a certain symmetry to your relationship with Stiles. 

It has always been him, coming to you. It has never been something you could predict, beyond the quiet calm of knowing--it would happen. 

He would come to you. 

So when he stops next to you in the cafe, dumping sugar and cream into an alarmingly large coffee--you aren’t surprised. 

“We need to talk,” he says, and you nod, like he hasn’t been missing for a week, like he hadn’t killed your ex-lover just before he stormed out, like he isn’t standing before you now, swaying on his feet with dark circles under his eyes. 

You want to ask, and you know this isn’t the time or place, know that he chose to find you here because it would force your questions to wait. 

It occurs to you that the last time you had the upper hand with this boy is when he was sixteen and kissing you and you were pushing him away. 

You think that should bother you more. If it were anyone but Stiles, it would. 

“Where?” you ask and he smiles. 

 

~*~

 

You follow him to the preserve. He slips out of his ridiculous Jeep while you park behind him, and by the time you climb out of your car, he’s in the trees, slipping further away. 

It almost feels like he’s running, but he came to you. 

He came to you--and you are a werewolf. He is doing nothing to hide his scent or sound as he crashes through the woods, and it makes following him child’s play. 

You very determinedly ignore the pounding of your pulse, the way this feels like a chase, and how you want to see it end. 

You follow him, slow and steady, and he leads you deep into the preserve, down winding game trails where you would watch Derek and Laura run, where you were with your family and happy. 

You wonder if you could be happy here, with Stiles. 

You wonder if you could be happy without him. 

 

~*~

 

“Where did you go?” you ask, sitting next to him on Lookout Pointe. 

“There’s a cottage upstate. Mom inherited after Gramps died, and Dad kept it for me, after she was gone,” Stiles says. “It’s a good place, when everything gets too much.” He wiggles his fingers and that sickly yellow tendrils curl around long pale fingers. “It’s safer there--warded, and no one around for me to hurt.” 

“Do you hurt people?” you ask, curiously and Stiles looks at you. His gaze is too sharp--knowing and amused. 

“Sometimes. If they deserve it,” he says lightly, and something wicked twists up his lips. “If they earn it.” 

You snort and Stiles laughs, light and bright, leaning into you briefly before he straightens. 

“I missed you,” you admit and he smiles. 

“Did you?” 

“Always,” you say quietly, and his breath catches, his gaze darting to you. 

“Peter--”

“You lied to me,” you say and Stiles smirks. 

Like being caught in a lie is the best joke he’s heard in ages. You want to pin him to the ground and lick that damn smirk right off his smug pretty face. 

“When?” 

“When I kissed you,” you say. 

“I didn’t. I said I can’t do this.” 

“Can’t,” you repeat, skeptically. “Or won’t?” 

He shrugs. “Does it matter? Point is--we aren’t happening.” 

You look at him, leaning back on his hands, his head tipped back so his face  is bathed in the sunlight, his long neck and body stretched out, beautiful and enticing, all lean and biteable. 

“Aren’t we?” you murmur and Stiles tips a hooded look toward you. “You say we aren’t. But you’re here. You came to me. You killed Deuc, for me.” 

“Consent is a thing, Creeperwolf,” Stiles says tartly, and you laugh. 

He’s watching and you move slow, slow enough that he could stop you, if he wanted, as you lean into his space, hover over him and run your nose over the curve of his jaw. He’s quiet and still, his heartbeat loud and fast in your ears, scent rich and spicy with arousal. 

You’re in the sunlight with a boy you’ve wanted for so long you don’t remember what it is like to not want him, and you can taste him, under your lips. “You forget, sweet boy. I’m a wolf. And wolves aren’t like humans. We don’t care about words--they don’t matter.” 

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his breath a hot puff against your throat, and you bite down on a growl. “What matters?” 

“What you do, darling. And everything you’ve done--your defense, taking care of me, escorting me in your territory, inviting me into your pack, giving me your protection, even hunting me down and keeping me from leaving-- _ everything _ has been a wolf claiming his mate.” You pull back, staring at him, and he stares, unflinching. 

It clicks into place, suddenly, and you breath, “And you  _ know _ it.” 

Stiles tips his head up, a subtle challenge and you kiss him. 

You kiss him because you can’t  _ not _ kiss him, and he groans, drops on his back and you want, gods you  _ want.  _

You lick into his mouth and eat the groans from his lips, swallow them down like you’re starving. 

You’re starving, and have been for years, starving for this boy. 

You shift, straddling him and he gasps, arching against you as you grind down, and you lick down his throat, biting and sucking, marking him as  _ yours _ . 

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, and he hisses, rolling  his hips up into you. “Stiles, tell me.” 

“Shut  _ up,”  _ he snarls and drags you into another kiss. 

It happens quickly from there. 

You want to take your time, wants to take him apart with your fingers and lips and mouth. 

You want to see him shaking and cursing, tears in his eyes as you tease, and--it’s fast. 

It’s his mouth on yours, biting and hot and perfect. 

It’s his cock in your hand, long and hard and wet as you stroke him, his hips moving in an intoxicating roll as you grind down against him. It’s his shuddering gasps and you, whispering, “You smell so good, sweetheart. You look so pretty like this. I want more, want to see you all naked and spread out over my bed, want to lick you open and fuck your mouth.” Stiles trembles and whines your name and you almost come, just from that. 

You shudder and stroke him harder, and he tenses under you. 

“Next time,” you whisper, biting his earlobe,” next time, you can have my mouth.” 

He shouts, and bucks up under you, coming in a burst that triggers your own orgasm, a hot punch of scent and arousal that makes you groan and grind down into the warm curve of his hip and shudder through your orgasm, gasping and biting at his pale skin. 

You settle slowly, your breathing rasping and slowing until it’s quiet, your heartbeat meeting his. The warm sunlight, the rich scent of sex, his hand tangled in your hair. All of it makes you want to sleep, to tuck him into the corner of your body and sleep until you have the energy to fuck him. 

You know damn well that isn’t an option, so you kiss his skin, as many times as you can while he calms and his fingers slowly stop stroking through your hair. 

“Peter,” he murmurs, and you know--you already know what he’s going to say. 

“I want you,” you say, silencing  him. “I want you and I’m not going to lie or hide that, not anymore. Not when I know you want me, too.” 

Stiles is quiet, and then he sighs, and he resumes petting through your hair. 


	16. Chapter 16

 

You wait a few days, let the peace of nothing trying to kill you or anyone else settle. It’s nice. Strange, but nice.

You wonder, in an idle sort of way, what will happen now that there is no threat.

You wonder how Derek and his pack handle peace, and you think--this time, you will stay and see.

You smile, to yourself, in the quiet of your shitty apartment, and make your plans.

 

~*~

 

You call Marin, and she agrees to send you what remains of your belongings. You call Kira, the kitsune you met in Boston, the only friend you have and smile when her warm voice fills your ear. “You ready, kit?”

She makes this happy noise that strings a grin across your face. “I thought you’d never call, Pete.”

You growl at her and get a giggle for your trouble, and then she gets serious. “Ok. What do you want from me?”

 

~*~

 

“Uncle,” Derek says, cautiously and you step into his living room carefully.

“Alpha Hale, I am here to petition residence in your territory,” you say evenly and Derek blinks.

You are only a little annoyed--you requested a formal meeting with the Hale Alpha and Emissary, surely he had to know you wanted more than Granny Hattie’s cran-apple muffins. Derek looks almost helpless--but Lydia is watching you, her eyes narrow and considering.

“If we give you leave to stay--what does that mean?” she asks.

Smart girl. But then, you suppose any girl Stiles says is smart would have to be brilliant to keep up with him.

“Added strength when facing outside threats. You wouldn’t move against me or mine and I would offer the same. I don’t want to be your pack, but I wouldn’t object to being around, at times.”

“And your own enemies?” Lydia demands and Derek finally moves. He snarls softly, and the little redhead gives a sigh of exasperation.

“These are questions I have to ask, Derek!”

“Not to him--he’s my _uncle_.”

You shake your head, “Even of me, Derek. Perhaps especially of me. I was _Duecalion’s_ bedmate and confidant. I am not a quiet good wolf looking for a place to spend the quiet years of middle age.” Lydia snorts and you flick a look at her. “I’m a killer, Derek. And I don’t apologize for that. I don’t apologize for any for the things I’ve done. Don’t ask it of me. But I do swear I would never hurt you, not if there was an option.”

 

~*~

 

“Are you staying for Stiles?”

“Yes,” you say simply and they both stare at you with fiercely possessive and pleased expressions.

 

~*~

 

Stiles wander through the new apartment, and you watch him, amused. He is very free with his touch, marking things with his scent and it makes you want to crowd into him, and also preen because it’s a claiming and he knows enough about ‘wolves to know it.

“Derek says you’re staying.”

You nod, and Stiles twitches a little, moving a picture frame--your belongings from Marin arrived yesterday. You wait until he wanders onward before you adjust it, and then twist to follow his progress through the room.

You think this is the kind of apartment you wanted to show him, right from the start. Something warm and comforting, something _nice_. A big kitchen and bigger bookcases.

“Is that why you got the new place?” Stiles asks, arching an eyebrow at you and you shrug.

“In part--but it’s not for me.”

Stiles stills, and looks back at you.

“I have--she isn’t pack, exactly. But she is close. She works for me. She’ll be here soon, and the apartment--” you glance around, and think that Kira will love it. Smile fondly. “It’s for her.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’ll be staying, briefly--Kira’s wife has been clear that the residency will be very brief--but I’m looking for a house.”

Stiles blinks at you and then, dumbly, “Wife?”

You huff out a sigh and step closer, close enough you can inhale the spicy warm scent of him. “Yes, darling. Wife. Kira’s.”

“You don’t want Kira,” he says, but it almost sounds like a question.

“Stiles,” you murmur. “I thought I was very clear about who I wanted.”

A bright red flush colors his cheeks, and you smirk as he glares at you.

“Would you look at the houses with me?” you ask. “I’ve been away from Beacon Hills long enough I don’t know what is a good area or not.”

Stiles gives you a patently disbelieving look and says, “I’m meant to believe that? That you’re doing this because you want advice and not my opinion on your future house?”

“No, of course not. I _do_ want your opinion on the house. It doesn’t mean I don’t also value your safety advice.”

He huffs and his expression goes tight and regretful. “We shouldn’t,”  he starts.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Stiles presses out, desperate almost.

“Friends do things together, darling.”

“Friends don’t house shop together. And they don’t spend the whole afternoon wondering what it would be like to ride the other’s cock.”

You grin, wide and shit eating. “Is that where you’re mind has been?”

Stiles flushes, a bright red that makes you smirk.

“Please,” you murmur, crowding against his back and kissing his throat. “I need your help, darling.”

Stiles heaves a sigh. “Stop. Friends don’t do that, Peter. Stop. I’ll--I’ll help you. But you have to stop.”

You force yourself a step back, and then another, until the tightness in Stiles’ shoulder relaxes just a little. “Of course, sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

You visit three houses, and Stiles hates them all. He tries to act like he likes the third, but his expression was screwed up and offended the entire time you wander through it so you passed, and drove him back to Derek’s.

“Are you going to build a pack?” he asks, abruptly and you flick a look at him.

“I don’t know. I’ve--I know that we’re pack animals, but I’ve never felt the need to be with other people. I was born into a pack, and when they died--I had Derek and we both had you, and it was enough. And then I left, and the Alpha Pack doesn’t encourage pack growth. So I never did. I don’t know--I think I’m happier this way.”

“Are you? Or are you just convinced you are?” Stiles asks and you give him a long searching look.

 

~*~

 

“What do you even do?” Isaac asks, two days later.

You give him a droll look and Erica leans into your shoulder. “Yeah, Uncle Peter. I thought you bummed around Europe taking in sugar babies for a living.”

“That is, in fact, the very opposite of working,” you point out and she grins, sharp and predatory.

“But you didn’t say I was wrong.”

You roll your eyes, and from across the room,  Stiles says lazily, “He procures rare books and magical artifacts for the discerning individual.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you smile, pleased, and then, “Isn’t that what the uppity British girl on Supernatural did?” Erica demands.

“Bella Talbot,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “was a thief and a damn good one--but I’m better.”

There’s another beat of silence, and then Stiles is cackling and Erica is bouncing next to you, almost in your lap and shrieking about marathoning the series, and Derek gives you a pained look. “You _had_ to encourage them,” he grumbles.

You shrug, unapologetic. Kira will be happy to have someone to fangirl to and you like the prospect of them in your den.

“How do you know what I do?” you ask, your voice a low purr, and Stiles flushes.

Looks up and wags the book at you. “Where do you think I got this?”

You’re up and across the apartment in seconds, and Stiles watches you as you take the book from him, your hands delicate as you open it and study the text.

“I sold this--two years ago. It took me almost three months to find it, and--” you frown at him. “You knew it was me?”

Stiles takes the book from you, and smirks as he curls up in your favorite chair, layering his scent over yours.

“I always know when it’s you,” he says, and goes back to his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not posting last week. I was sick and also real life caught up with me pretty hard.


	17. Chapter 17

Erica spills into apartment with three boxes of pastries and her packmates on her heels, and you sigh.

“Nephew, I thought we agreed to keep the packs separate.”

Derek flashes an unfriendly smile and snags one of the boxes from Erica and says, “Feel free to make them do that anytime you want.”

You roll your eyes, but shut the door behind the pack and turn to watch them flopping into your space.

Stiles isn’t with them, and you try very hard not to focus on that, instead steal a danish and growl a warning when Erica drifts too close to your coffee.

“You'd be lonely without us,” Isaac says completely sure of himself and you give him a bland stare.

It isn't surprising that that they're here, in your space.

Not today, when you are awake far earlier than you should or want to be, when you are vibrating with impatience, and they’re filling up the apartment with curiosity and bright assessing eyes.

“Have you considered that maybe she would prefer to not be greeted by a pack of wolves when she first arrives?” you grumble and you are met with stunning indifference that makes you want to snarl.

There are footsteps in the hall, and you twitch toward the door, hands clenched on your coffee to keep from darting to the door.

Kira is special.

She’s special and she’s _yours_ in a way that no one ever has been. You have never cared what she thinks of the pack you surround yourself with, or what they think of her. Deucalion and his pack of killers didn’t matter, not in regard to Kira--but this pack does.

Erica presses against your shoulder, and you take a deep breath, and open the door.

Kira is standing next to her wife, tiny in her oversized sweatshirt, bare legs and combat boots. She's almost vibrating place and for a moment, as you stare at each other, you can see the fox spirit she wears under her skin, curling around her and reaching for you.

“Pete,” she shrieks and throws herself into your arms and you laugh, breathing in the scent of her, safe and here at last.

“ _Pete,”_ comes the strangled exclamation from behind you.

Kira peeks over your shoulder before leaning back and giving you a raised eyebrow. “Um?”

 

~*~

 

The pack loves her.

Of course they do. She’s beautiful and quietly sweet, the complete opposite of you, and she’s so earnest it makes your teeth ache. They help unpack under Malia’s stern gaze, and you skirt away from the other woman, keep close to Kira as she wanders the apartment.

“I like it,” she says, happily and you almost preen.

It’s only when the pack leaves, herded out by Derek when he sees the way you’re twitching and Kira is drooping listlessly against Malia, that she looks at you.

“What about your boy?”

“He isn’t mine,” you say instantly and Malia snorts. You scowl at her.

You still aren’t sure where Malia came from or why she ended up married to your best friend. But you know she makes Kira happy and even if you think she’s annoying, you’ll tolerate far worse, to make Kira happy.

“He was busy,” you say.

Kira frowns, and you busy yourself making tea, to avoid her eyes.

“Pete,” she says softly and you sigh. Close your eyes.

“He doesn’t want me,” you say. “Or he doesn’t want a relationship--I don’t know. We’re doing a bangup job at friendship--but sometimes he just vanishes.”

“Are you ok with that?”

You stare at the water, slowly turning dark as the teabag seeps.

“Yes,” you say, truthfully. “Stiles’ friendship is better than nothing, and better than everything with almost anyone else.”

Kira wraps her arms around your waist, leaning her face against your back and her warmth engulfs you. “Almost,” she says, soft and you squeeze her hands.

 

~*~

 

It’s almost three days before Kira and Stiles meet. The pack is giving her and Malia space to settle into Beacon Hills, and you’re busy responding to clients who have been waiting while you dealt with Deucalion, and for two days there’s a lull, a quiet marred only by unpacked boxes and Malia’s sharp voice grumbling as Kira says, “Hmmm, babe? I think to the left? A little? No! Too much.”

Their scent winds through the apartment, covering the pack, and mixing with your own, and it’s soothing, comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.

And then--when you least expect it, because he always comes when you least expect it--Stiles is there.

 

~*~

 

You hear his heartbeat before you unlock the door, and it sets your own to racing, and you almost fall into the apartment, bags clutched too tight.

Stiles blinks at you from the kitchen table, and it makes your throat tight, how perfect he looks there.

He’s wearing a black v-neck, the sleeves shoved up to bare his wrists and forearms, and his hair is a messy tousle and there are dark circles under his eyes and a sleepy smile curving his lips and he’s so beautiful you actually _hurt._

“Stiles,” you breath.

“Hey, big bad. Thought I’d come by, meet the pack.” He flashes a slightly apologetic look. “I was called away on a job, or I’d have been by earlier.”

“What do you do?” Kira asks, curiously, and you wonder how you don’t know the answer to this. In all the time you’ve been back, you haven’t bothered to ask that, and it feels, suddenly, like a terrible oversight.

Stiles grins. “Freelance emissary work. Not all packs want or need a full time emissary, or trust one--but they still want the warding, the rituals. Sometimes the territory needs to be purified. That sort of shit. I can generally do that.”

“Packs _trust_ you to do that?”

“Hey!” Stiles says, almost offended. “I’m damn good at it!”

“Of course you are,” you say offhand. “But most packs are very….”

“They don’t trust strangers,” Malia says bluntly and Stiles shrugs.

“If I fuck over a pack, it gets around. If my work holds up when a threat comes to call--that gets around too. Besides, I’ve been working with the Hale pack for years, and most people aren’t stupid enough to fuck with us. That’s a lot of my reputation right there.”

“But you’re part of that pack,” Kira says and he shakes his head.

“Stiles stands apart from my nephew, foxy.”

She frowns and cocks her head at him and you can almost feel the way her fox narrows it’s attention at her.

“Why?”

Stiles smiles then, easy and bright. “Because I love Derek like a brother. But he’s not the right alpha for me.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles takes to spending an hour or so in the apartment every morning, and his scent winds through the den. It’s soothing--and maddening, and you want more, want everything.

You remind yourself that he wants friendship, that _everything_ isn’t on offer, and smile when he shows up, his eyes crinkled into a grin while Kira puts Supernatural on and they bicker over Sam and Dean while they work on their respective computers.

You want to keep him, and sometimes you’ll catch Derek watching you and him, his gaze speculative and too knowing.

Then he arrives, and slaps down a small stack of real estate listing. You’ve looked at two more houses, but you mostly send them to Stiles and wait for him to tell you why they don’t work.

This is the first time he’s come to you with a house, and it makes your eyebrows hitch up. “You need to go see them,” he says, simply, and you blink at him.

“How about tomorrow?” you say, easily.

“You still want me to go?”

You stare at him, blank faced and he huffs. “Fine. Don’t need to be an asshole.”

“And you don’t need to act the idiot,” you say mildly, reaching for your phone to call your realtor.

 

~*~

 

The first house is another bust, and you see disappointment on Stiles’ face, before you walk in, but you politely let Mariane show you the entire thing.

The second house--

You jerk, twisting to stare at Stiles, whose scent has gone sweet with longing. His eyes are bright and wide and you want to know what he sees.

It doesn’t matter, really--Stiles loves it, and you’ll buy it for that alone.

“Come along, sweetheart. Let’s see what we think.”

 

~*~

 

You like it.

It’s not the instant hard fall love that Stiles so clearly feels, but you like it. The rooms are wide and spacious, the wood floor is beautiful. It needs some work, fixing the moulding and painting, and the kitchen will need a complete overhaul, and the porch needs to be rebuilt.

But it’s a gorgeous house, and the way it pushes into the trees of the preserve makes something in you settle.

It’s a good house, a good place for a pack--even a pack as small as yours.

And Stiles loves it, bounces around like a pinball, the kind of wound up excitement you haven’t seen from him since he was a boy in your classroom.

You love it, didn’t realize you were missing it until you see it again.

You think the lengths you would go, to see him smile like this, are terrifying.

“Thank you, Mariane,” you say, as she finishes showing you the house. “I’ll call with an offer by the end of the day.”

Stiles is quiet until you’re driving toward your apartment, and then, “You shouldn’t buy a house because I like it.”

“I’m buying a house because I need it and I’m buying _this_ house because it’s  good house for my needs and the pack, such as it is.”

“And me?”

“You love it. I won’t lie and say that isn’t part of my decision. But it is not all of it, sweetheart.”

“I can’t be what you want me to be right now,” he says softly.

“You can be my friend, darling. For now, I will be happy with that.”

“For now?” he says, and you smile. It’s dark and hungry, and he shivers.

“For now.”

 

~*~

 

When you get word that your offer had been accepted, you think first about telling Kira.

About calling Derek and telling him, formally, where you would be establishing your pack.

You think about calling Erica and the puppies to celebrate.

Instead you slip out and go find Stiles.

He’s in distressed jeans and his hands are dirty with herbs and what smells like mountain ash and you step into the apartment behind him unhesitatingly.

“What’s up?” he asks, dusting his hands off.

“I got the house,” you say, and you can hear the pride in your voice, the anxious hope that he’ll be pleased.

You are courting him--your wolf is courting him, and this matters. His acceptance _matters_.

Stiles’ eyes are soft and warm and he nods. “Well done, alpha,” he murmurs and there isn’t any sarcasm or mocking in his voice, and that--

“I need--can I--” you choke on your words, because you _can’t_  do this.

You _can’t_ ask him for more than he is willing to give.

You _won’t._

“What do you need, alpha?” he murmurs, swaying closer, and his scent is so rich and clean and there isn’t a single trace of you. His hands land on your shoulders, and you struggle not to gasp, not to slump into him.

“You smell wrong,” you whisper and he breathes a laugh that brushes against your skin.

“So fix it,” he says, and you groan as you press into him, rubbing your nose up the length of his throat. His hand finds your head, fingers weaving into your hair and he says, voice low and vibrating under your lips, “You can do better than that.”

You snarl and _lick_ , drag your fangs up the pale skin until a bright red line rises up, and it’s so fucking _good_ you want to pin him to the bed, want to rut against him until you cover him with your come, and you’ve sucked dark bruises in his skin. You bite, once, his pulse pounding between your teeth, and he shudders, body pressing in a hard arch against yours and you can smell it, the hot arousal in his scent.

Pulling away is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. But he said he couldn’t be with you and even if his scent and body are saying something different in _this_ moment, you can’t bring yourself to ignore what he so clearly said.

Even if you want to. You lick over his throat once more, chase the alluring scent of him up to the hinge of his jaw and bite lightly before you step back.

He looks--

He looks beautiful, debauched and hungry and you want to keep him that way, always. You lick your lips as he blinks up at you, expression dazed.

“What are you working on?” you ask, forcing your voice steady and he laughs. Grabs your wrist and pulls you along behind him.

“You can help,” he says and you nod, sinking into his space and scent happily.


	18. Chapter 18

You close on the house a month after you put in the offer, and as impatient as you are to move out of the apartment, you force yourself to walk through it with Kira and Malia, assessing.

“We should definitely do the floors and paint, before you move in,” she says.

Malia’s eyes narrow at you and you shrug, helplessly. You’ll end up doing exactly what Kira says because she’s your best friend and you adore her.

“What color do you want to paint the rooms?” she asks and you smile, sharply.

 

~*~

 

Malia and Kira retreat after an hour at Home Depot. You don’t mind. This house will be the pack house, but it is _your_ den--and you want it to be perfect.

You leave with a myriad can of paints, brushes and rollers and a message from Kira that the contractor will be by to discuss the kitchen and flooring the next day. You smile and send your thanks, and then head toward the edge of town, to where the house is.

It happens when you’re almost there, when you hit the stretch on Westwood that’s empty and quiet. You’re not paying attention, considering calling Stiles to tell him about the paint and the house and the damn kitchen, when blue lights flash behind you.

You stare at the squad car behind you, so startled it takes you almost a mile before you actually pull over.

The Sheriff climbs out of the cruiser, and you huff.

You aren’t terribly _surprised_ by this new development, but it’s still annoying.

“Sheriff,” you say, friendly as he stops next to your car.

“Do we need to do the whole license and registration?” he asks, and you cock your head at him.

“I think we're both better than that,” you say and he smirks.

You can see some of Stiles in the Sheriff, in the way his lips twist and wicked glee brightens blue eyes.

“You're staying in Beacon Hills,” he says, not bothering to beat around the bush and you incline your head. There's no reason to deny it.

“That got anything to do with Stiles?” he asks.

You think of the promise you made to yourself. That you were done lying about what you want, done denying it. “Everything,” you say evenly, honestly.  

He tilts his head. “I know he had a thing for you, back when you were his teacher.”

You stare at him, impassive. You won't defend yourself, if he thinks the worst. You kissed a sixteen year old boy, a boy you _taught._ Even if you _want_ to defend yourself, you don't have a leg to stand on.

“He was furious. When you left. Probably the most self-destructive I've ever seen him, aside from when Claudia died.”

“That was never my intention,” you say and he nods.

“I know. And leaving--it was the best thing you could do for him.”

You blink and he smiles. “Stiles is cooking tomorrow. Vegetable enchiladas. You bring something worth eating for dessert.”

“How angry will that make him?”

John laughs. “Furious.”

“Lovely,” you sigh and get a shit eating grin in answer.

He straightens and nods. “Have a safe evening, Mr. Hale.”

You wait until he pulls away with a small wave and then keep driving down the road as you call Derek.

“What is the Sheriff’s favorite dessert?”

 

~*~

 

You know that he wasn’t told.

You know that your presence is a surprise. Still, there’s a moment, when he opens the door and his face goes startled, that you think this is a bad idea.

That you should back away and go home.

Then his eyes narrow. “Dad?” he asks, and you nod.

Stiles huffs, and lets you inside. He glares at the box you’re holding like it’s killed his firstborn and you smile.

“Cheesecake. Vegan, with coconut sugar and lowfat yogurt and a syrup made of raw raspberries and honey.” Stiles eyes you suspiciously and you smile at him. “The man blackmailed me into being here, and even if I do want to be where you are--I can’t _reward_ that kind of behavior.”

“Sometimes I forget what I saw in you,” he says fondly. “And then you do something like this.”

You smirk and lean against the counter, watching him cutting up red onion.

He’s comfortable here, cooking for his father, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“I like you like this,” you murmur and he flicks a look at you, a smile twitching up his lips.

“Barefoot in the kitchen?”

You snort, and shake your head. “Comfortable.”

Stiles pauses, studying you. “Not the displays of power?”

“I like that too,” you shrug. “But there’s something soothing about you like this--comfortable and not wielding all of that power.”

“Huh,” he says, thoughtfully, and you glance away, looking at the door as the Sheriff comes through. He grins when he sees you and you smile politely, let yourself be drawn into a conversation with him as Stiles finishes dinner.

 

~*~

 

You are only a little surprised that dinner is delicious. Stiles pairs the enchiladas with a cilantro lime rice, and badgers his dad about the amount of sour cream he scoops out, and you listen, and you understand.

This wasn’t about making Stiles uncomfortable or putting you on the spot--it was about inviting you into a place that is _theirs_.

It was, however clumsy, a blessing and a hand extended by the sheriff, and you--you aren’t sure what to do with that.

Stiles gets a phone call halfway through dinner and he scowls at it but slips away with an apologetic look at you and a warning one for his father.

John is quiet, finishing his enchilada with a small smile on his face and you--you clear your throat. "Thank you," you murmur, "for the invitation. But--I think you might have the wrong idea about Stiles and I."

John reaches for the rice and you scowl, knowing Stiles will be upset he had more.

"Do you know that when Stiles was seven, he fell for the little Martin girl? Did you teach her?"

You nod.

"She--god she was a pretty little thing, and so smart. Grew up to be just as smart, you know. But she wouldn't give my boy the time of day. Wanted nothing to do with him, until he'd gone and got himself hung up on someone else."

John looks at you, his eyes sharp. "It took him almost nine years, Peter. He was hung up on Lydia until he fell for his history teacher when he was sixteen."

You flush, and almost apologize but he keeps speaking before you can.

"Stiles--he saw something in you, Peter. I'm not sure what--I don't think I want to know what. But he did. And I know my son. He doesn't give up one the things he wants easily."

You eye the ring on his finger, still, almost eighteen years after his wife's death, and you refrain from commenting.

You forget he's a damn good sheriff. His gaze is rueful as he thumbs over the ring. "It's probably a family thing--loving past the point of sense. But he cares about you. Ok? Don't--just. Remember that."

Stiles comes back a few minutes later, and he eyes you and his father with something like worry in his eyes, but you smile, and nod at his seat. "Eat, sweetheart. It's getting cold."

John doesn't say anything about the endearment, and Stiles--

Stiles flushes the prettiest pink and does exactly what he's told.

 

~*~

 

After dinner and a slice of cheesecake that John raves over--Stiles smirks into his the entire time--you clear the dishes and take a spot next to your boy at the sink, taking the dishes from him as he washes them.

It's disgustingly domestic, something you've never bothered to do with anyone.

When you were with Deuc, there was a pretty timid maid who cleaned the house and prepared the meals.

Before that--you lived alone or with Derek and neither of you cared so much about bonding that you'd do it over a sink full of dirty dishes. Even now, standing next to Stiles, you are only here because you're very sure you can't convince him to leave them for his father.

"Thanks," he says, and you smile at him, easily. "I know you probably had better things to do," he continues. "Dad--he might have the wrong idea about us."

You arch an eyebrow, and dry another plate. "He knows about your high school crush."

"Do you have to call it that?" Stiles almost whines and you grin.

"What would you prefer?"

"Nothing," he scowls. "I'd prefer we ignore it."

You snort and finish the silverware.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" you ask, changing the subject so quickly it makes Stiles' mouth drop open. You eye it so openly he flushes and snaps it closed.

"No. I have a job starting on Monday, but I've got a few days off until then."

"Excellent. I'd like to pick you up--I need your help for a few hours," you say seriously.

Stiles straightens, his eyes narrowing. "Anything serious?"

You smile. Brave, beautiful boy. "No, darling. Just want some company for it, is all."

"It being..." Stiles says, voice leading.

You smirk. "A surprise."

He huffs a little, glares at you and you smile back, smug and pleased.

"I hate you," he mutters and his heart--

His heart trips, that delicious uneven rhythm that screams lie.

You lean in close, and murmur, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You're lying, sweetheart. And not even very well."

He stares at you, his eyes bright and hungry and you _want_.

You want him so badly it makes your hands tremble.

You force yourself back a step. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Peter," he whispers, his hand hot and claiming on your wrist and you still under the touch. You watch him, and see the moment he deflates, the moment he nods.

"In the morning, then."

You debate for a moment, and then say fuck it. Lean in and brush against his cheek, a soft scent marking that makes him shiver.

"Tell your father I said thank you, for dinner."

Stiles nods and you step away. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Derek opens the door for you, giving you a dirty glare as he stumbles back toward bed without a word.

You watch him go, smiling. Pup never was a fan of mornings. It’s reassuring to know that some things never change.

You can hear Stiles talking to Derek, his voice pitched low and indistinct, and you glance at your phone to see a text from Kira.

_Bring him back for dinner._

You roll your eyes and close out of that, looking up at Stiles emerges from the hallway with an expectant smile.

“I’m all yours, Alpha.”

You shiver and he smiles, all cocky innocence.

_Little shit._

 

~*~

 

You take him to breakfast. His eyebrows hitch as you pull into Maple’s, sliding a sidelong glance at you, assessing.

You shrug. “While I was gone, the one thing I could never forget was Maple’s blueberry pancakes and spicy hash browns. Unless those have changed?”

“Are you kidding? Maple hasn’t changed anything since the seventies. Including her hair.”

You huff a laugh and push out of the car.

“So, you needed me to—take me to breakfast?” Stiles asks and you pull open the door.

He watches you, until you nudge him along with a careful touch at the small of his back. “Among other things,” you say, and he growls.

You grin.

Once you’ve settled in a booth and ordered breakfast, he focuses on you, his narrow eyed amber gaze sharply assessing. “I thought you actually _needed_ something.”

“Is your company not enough?” you ask innocently and Stiles gives you the most unimpressed eyebrows you’ve seen since Derek was sixteen. “Fair enough. I do—I need help making a few decisions, but that can wait until after breakfast.”

He huffs, and you kick his foot lightly under the table. “You said friends,” you remind him. “And friends do this.”

“We aren’t that kind of friends,” Stiles says, sourly, but there’s a reluctant grin pulling at his mouth that you want to kiss and nip at, so you ignore his words and tell him about a new show Kira roped you into watching.

 

~*~

 

Stiles snorts when you pull up to the furniture store and gives you an unimpressed look. “This, Peter? You expect me to believe that Kira doesn’t have an opinion to offer you?” he shoves out of the car, and ambles to your side, still complaining. “I’m not helping you pick out fucking drapes, man.”

“Good,” you say curtly, taking him by the elbow and gently tugging him into the store. “We don’t need drapes.”

“Oh. Well. That makes it better than,” Stiles says, dripping sarcasm.

You ignore it and shake the list out. Hand it to Stiles, just to see his eyes go almost comically wide.

“Where would you like to start, darling?”

 

~*~

 

"You can't possibly need all of this," Stiles says, staring at the list. You've directed him toward the dining room sets and you are busy inspecting the tables while he stares in some dismay at the list.

"I have a new house and nothing to put in it," you say, absently. The broad oak table is sturdy--you think it's the kind of sturdy that could withstand even Derek's pack, and it's a lovely height. You glance at Stiles--perfect to bend him over and thrust into.

"What about your stuff from living with Deucalion," Stiles asks and his heartbeat stays remarkably steady. Like asking you about your dead lover, the man he killed, isn't a little bit of a loaded question.

Still.

Overdue, perhaps.

"Kira liquidated all my assets before she and Malia came out. We took a loss, but it's done. Even if I thought the furniture and belongings were worth moving--I don't want that in the new house."

"Why?"

You huff. How do you say this. "Because i want the new house to be a new start. I want something fresh and good for my new pack."

_For you,_ you don't say.

You don't need to say it.

Stiles is smart. He's very good at hearing what isn't said.

He stares at you for a long time, and then, “I’m picking your couch.”

You quirk an eyebrow and he shrugs. Grins. “You’d pick something that looks good, and is probably hell to actually sit on. Not what you need.”

“And you know what I need?”

Stiles smirks, and it’s filthy and your breath catches at it, at the way he sways closer to you, a tiny half step closer bringing him almost against your chest. “I think we both know that if there’s anything I’m good for—it’s knowing what you need.”

You ruthlessly suppress your shudder, and nod at him. Wave a hand. “Then, please, darling. Lead on.”

 

~*~

 

You let him pick the couch and the furniture suit for the two guest rooms. Kira’s room, he defers to you on and he doesn’t seem interested in the kitchen at all. But the bedroom—your bedroom—and the library.

He fights you on those, arguments that escalate in volume and insults until he’s grinning and you’re half-hard, and a sales manager hovers nervously nearby.

Stiles is _magnificent._

Even when you were teaching him, when he was snarking and arguing in your classroom, you could see the potential in him, the way his mind was lightening fast and clever, so fucking clever you wanted to poke and prod just to see what would happen.

Now, he’s an adult and he’s grown into all that potential and he’s fucking _perfect_ and you want to keep fighting with him for the rest of your life.

It would be a terrifying thought if it were anyone but Stiles.

But it is, and you bask in it, revel in it, as you let him argue his way into picking your new bed and the couch for your office.

You wonder if he realizes just how much he is claiming you.

You think he is far too clever to not know.

 

~*~

 

“Why did you go with Deuc?” Stiles asks, after you’ve left the store with a promise of delivery in two days.

You glance at him. You told them all about your time with the Alpha Pack. With Deucalion.

But this is the first time Stiles has asked, and you know it means something.

“Because I was lonely and he was very good at what he did.”

“You knew he was dangerous.”

You shrug, and let a smile play at the edges of your lips. “Do you know why I wasn’t in the house, when it burnt?”

Stiles goes still.

You don’t talk about the fire. You don’t and Derek doesn’t, and you know that Stiles knows how much talking about it means.

“Derek wasn’t because Kate—she kept him clear. She wanted him to live with what she did. That was part of the plan, part of how she was going to destroy him. But I wasn’t—I was supposed to be in the house.”

“Why weren’t you?” Stiles asks, and his voice is soft, a hushed almost tentative whisper in the quiet car.

“Because I was burying a beta from the Giblin pack that attacked one of our pack,” you say, easily and his gaze narrows. He knows what pack hierarchy is, and you—you have never been ashamed of who and what you are to your pack.

“You were Talia’s Left.”

You nod, and he lets out a slow breath. “Shit. That—that explains so much.”

“Does it?”

He hums, but this isn’t the boy you remember, and he plays his cards closer to his vest now.

“Did it help?”

You arch an eyebrow at him and he shrugs. “Killing the Argents. Did it help? Was it worth being with Deuc for that?”

You think. It’s a question worth thinking about. You think of the years with Deucalion, the casual cruelties and the way he hurt you. You think of the dead bodies he left in his wake, and the power that never seemed like enough and the way he watched you like you belonged to him.

And you think of your nieces dying, of your tiny nephew and the way your pack bonds frayed and shattered as your pack died. You think of your strong alpha howling in rage and pain, and the way the bodies were charred husks laid out in the morgue, think about Derek and the way he looks haunted, still.

“Yes,” you say, finally. You don’t look at him, when you say it.

Stiles is quiet for a long time, and you drive to his and Derek’s apartment in silence.

When you park, Stiles doesn’t move right away.

“I have a job coming up. I’m leaving on Monday,” he says, and you nod, remembering what he said last night.

“I—would you come with me?”

You still, and he huffs out a breath. “I’d like to show you something.”

You watch him, watch the way his long fingers thrum against his knee, nerves wafting off him delicately. His sleeves are pushed up, baring his strong forearms and the pale thin scars and you nod. “Of course, darling.”

His smile is small and relieved and beautiful.

You think you would burn the world and level mountains, to keep him smiling like that.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unintentional hiatus! Life and the holiday season got away from me. BUT I'M BACK AND WE'RE ALMOST TO THE END!!! <3

 

"Derek," Kira says, pleasantly surprised, and you look up from your book to study your nephew.

It's only been a few hours since you returned Stiles home and promised to see him on Monday morning, and you are only surprised that it took Derek this long to come to you. He gives Kira a fleeting smile and Malia a barely contained scowl--he likes your tiny pack, something that is strangely amusing to you.

"Nephew," you drawl. "Care to join us for dinner? I think Malia made venison steaks. I seem to remember you enjoyed them."

"Not hungry," he says and you smile, thinly.

"What brings you to my door, then? So late in the day and so clearly upset."

His glare intensifies, and Kira huffs. "Stop poking, Pete," she orders, and tucks an arm in Derek's elbow. "Come sit down and I'll get us some cookies."

Derek looks at her, a little bit baffled and you hide a smile, watching her charm him with her sweetness. It's amusing because it's so different from the way you charm people.

"I suppose he told you?" you say, carelessly, shifting your feet and settling deeper into the chaise you're half reclining in.

"He did."

You hum, thoughtfully. "You don't approve."

Derek doesn't quite agree--but he certainly doesn't disagree. You feel a spike of annoyance. "He isn't yours, Derek. You have a pretty, competent emissary. What I do with Stiles is my business."

"Stiles has never been in my pack, and he isn't my emissary--by his choice. Because I respect him and what he wants. Not because I didn't offer or want him. But he's been my best friend for over a decade, and he's mine to protect."

"I'm not a danger you need to chase away, Derek."

He laughs at that, and shakes his head, "You're the most dangerous thing there is to him. You just don't care."

"That isn't fair," Kira interjects, her eyes flashing and you sit up, put a hand on her wrist. The very last thing you need is for your kitsune to challenge an alpha werewolf for Stiles.

"I do care," you say, evenly. "You know I care about him."

"Do I? Because he said no and you're taking him furniture shopping and going on assignments with him and that doesn't spell giving him space.”

“He requested my presence, Derek,” you say, letting a little annoyance seep into your tone. Derek stills, his brows furrowed as he stares at you.

“He wouldn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “He doesn’t do that—not for anyone.”

You ignore the surge of possessive pride that brings up. That Stiles _wants_ to share this with you when he won’t with anyone else.

But there is too, your nephew. Standing in your kitchen, scent and expression blossoming with distress, and you stand. “I know you are struggling to understand this, Derek, but I don’t want to hurt him. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, not ever.”

 Derek watches you, eyes narrow and suspicious and you sigh. “I love him, nephew.”

That makes him pause and then, softly, “How long?”

“I think since he was sixteen and kissing me in my classroom,” you answer and he inhales. “I left to protect him, and myself. And now I’m here. And I love him. And I’m not going to do anything to start hurting him now.”

Derek stares at you for a long time and then he laughs, and it sounds a little bit wet and rueful. “I always knew I’d lose him, eventually.”

You’re quiet and Derek shakes his head. “Be good to him, Peter.”

 

~*~

 

Traveling with Stiles is…interesting.

He’s loud and likes to stop for snacks, and chatters inanely about the history of the region as he drives through it. You curl up on your side of the Jeep and stare at him over the oversized cup of coffee he thrust at you when he picked you up and listen with a bemused smile.

He talks talks talks but so much of what he says adds up to nothing. You wonder if he realizes he uses words as a defense, as a shield, and then you think—he has to know. He’s too clever to be that oblivious.

Slowly, though, his words give way to long stretches of silence, and you wonder what that means. He smells warm and content and his fingers drum happily against the wheel, and when he does talk, it’s to offer up bits of minutia with a shy smile, like he isn’t sure of his welcome.

You find yourself utterly charmed, and watch him blossom under your teasing responses, and the miles slip quietly away.

 

~*~

 

It’s over lunch, that it happens.

The waiter is attentive, almost too attentive, his smile flirty and inviting as he fills Stiles’ drink and takes his order, and you grit your teeth against the urge to rip his pretty little face right off his skull.

Stiles is sleek and lazy under the pretty slut’s gaze, his cheeks the loveliest shade of pink and the tip of his tongue wetting his lips as he all but preens under the flirty banter. When the waiter retreats, it all melts away and the smirk he directs at you is teasing and sarcastic.

You growl and reach for him, tracing his long elegant fingers with a claw. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

His scent goes warm and pleased, a curl of arousal cutting through that makes you want to drag him into your lap and bury your face in the long curve of his throat.

“Am I?” he murmurs, high and breathless, like a prey animal and you _want._

Gods, this boy.

“Peter,” Stiles says and his voice is clear, demanding, and it jerks you out of the hazy fog of arousal that’s spinning through you and making you hard. His fingers tighten, a hint of electric fire burning against his skin and yours and you blink at him. His gaze, sunshot whiskey warm, are steady and assessing. “Derek told you, didn’t he? About my slutty years.”

You choke down the growl in your throat and his lips tip upward, knowingly. “Does it bother you?” he asks, curiously.  

You’re quiet, and he’s patient, nibbling on a French fry and watching you.

“I left,” you say, finally. “And I was in a relationship, even an incredibly toxic one--I don’t have a right to any feelings about the matter.”

His lips quirk up and his eyes are mischievous. “But you do have an opinion.”

“And you--you have one about my relationship with Deuc.”

Because you’re watching for it, you can see the fury in flash in his eyes, see the minute tightening of his fingers on his fork. You smile, sharp and cold and he huffs.

The waiter returns, and his flirting grates less this time, especially since you see the way Stiles flirts, but never really takes his attention from you and you realize--

Your boy is preening and peacocking for you.

And you want to drag him to bed and keep him there, even as he stares at you with glee and challenge in his eyes, and a subtle demand that you are beginning to realize can’t be ignored.

 

~*~

 

“I never loved him,” you say.

The car is quiet, only broken by the hum of the radio and Stiles off-tune singing under his breath, and he glances at you.

“I was with Deuc because he served a purpose, and then because he was powerful and I was...lonely.”

“ _You_ left.”

You look at him, because for the first time, you can hear the hint of fury in his voice, that you left.

That you ran from him.

You nod, careful to maintain eye contact. “I did. And you know why. I won’t apologize for leaving, Stiles. You were a _child._ ”

“I haven’t been a child for years, Peter. I grew up a long time ago.”

You nod. “It doesn’t mean you were ready to be with me. Or that I was ready to be with you. I was--” you break off, your heart pounding. You don’t talk about this. Not with Derek when you left or since you came home, not with Deucalion. Once--only once and you were very drunk--you talked about it with Kira. And then you avoided her for six months.

Stiles is staring at you, patient. Quietly unmoving, eternally waiting, and you wish--you wish that were still true. That Stiles was still waiting for you.

“After the pack was killed--I was broken, Stiles. I was angry and I felt so fucking _guilty._ I should have been here, should have been protecting them. And I wasn’t.”

“You were protecting them--” he protests, and you laugh, bitter and unamused.

“From a neutralized threat, something that even at its worst would never bleed our weakest packmate, much less slaughter the alpha in her den. I was distracted and I was blind. I didn’t see what was happening to Derek, because I didn’t want to.”

Stiles gaze narrows. “Deuc was a punishment.”

You stare at him and shrug. Lightly, even as your heart pounds too hard. “Maybe. Maybe it wasn’t that intentional. Maybe it was only that I was angry and hurting and he hurt me and that was easier than dealing with the guilt.”

“You got your revenge,” he says, softly.

“Sometimes,” you murmur, “it’s not enough. Sometimes vengeance doesn’t wipe away the guilt you carry.”

He shudders, and his face, so bright and lively, goes blank.

You stare at him, and remember what Derek said, about the nogitsune and the guilt that drove Stiles away from the pack after Allison died.

You think maybe he understands you, more even than you thought.

“Leaving Beacon Hills wasn’t just because of me, was it?” Stiles asks, and his voice is small, young in a way you never hear him sound.

“No, darling. Of course not.” You hesitate, and then carefully extend your hand, a quiet invitation. “I left because _I_ had to. Once Derek graduated, when he had you and the beginnings of the pack around him--he didn’t _need_ me and I _needed_ to get away from here. Leaving you—Stiles, you were the only thing I didn’t ever want to leave. Even knowing then, and now, that it was what you needed, and what I needed--I never wanted to walk away from you.”

“Are you leaving again?”

His voice is still so small, and it makes you ache. Stiles should never sound small.

“No,” you whisper, fervently. No hesitation and no room for doubt and his gaze flicks to you, briefly, so briefly. His fingers come down, warm and slender and strong as they grip yours and he gives you a smile, achingly small and hopeful.

  
  


 


	21. Chapter 21

 

The pack is tucked away in the woods, somewhere in Canada, a few hours north of Vancouver. You drive for a while, as Stiles sleeps, face slack and unspeakably young. He wakes to drive the last hour, though, and you straighten as he drives, fingers tight on the wheel, eyes bleak. 

“Stay close and stay quiet, ok? You're under my protection and they won't challenge that--but I don't really want to need to press the point.” 

You nod and he gives you a brief, distracted smile and drives on. 

There are four wolves waiting when Stiles parks, and thick trees that obscure what you know has to be the pack house. Stiles studies them for a moment, and then nods to himself and shoves out of the car. You move to flank him, lingering a step or two behind, just enough that you have his back, but not so close that you're challenging his authority. 

You might be the alpha, but you are under no illusions about who is running this particular show. 

The alpha is a tall, thick cut man, with black hair sprinkled through with grey and piercing brown eyes. He reminds you of Talia's husband, and you wonder for a moment if they might be brothers. 

Then it's dismissed, because Stiles is shifting impatiently. "You called, Alpha Hews." 

"You read our terms," the alpha says and his mate stirs, anxiously. 

Stiles nods. "I know what you want," he says agreeably. 

"What is he?" Hews asks, and you stir, just a little, just enough to see his betas stiffen anxiously. 

Stiles glances at you, and then back at Hews, and his smile is decidedly less friendly, a sharp edged, icy thing that makes you shiver and lean into him. "Mine," he says simply. "And I vouch for his behavior on your lands." 

Hews scowls and Stiles waits, patient, a tiny smile tilting up his lips. Like he knows how this will end. 

You think that's probably true. 

"Fine. Do your work, witch," Hews grumbles and Stiles gives him grin that is anything but friendly. 

~*~ 

The pack doesn't trust Stiles. You think that maybe it's you--maybe they distrust a strange alpha wandering their territory, but even when you stray from Stiles side, they don't turn their attention away from him, content to let you wander through their woods without complaint and you realize--their objections have nothing to do with you. 

Stiles, though. 

They tense every time he reaches for his dagger, every time his blood sizzles against the sigils and runes he etches into trees, traces into the dirt, and you can feel the magic swelling in the air, a muted ringing that gathers pressure as the afternoon stretches on and Stiles works his magic into the land, until he presses his hand into the dirt near twilight, and the pressure  _ pops _ , noise rushing back in as he sways at your side, and you bite back the curse crowding against your teeth. 

The other wolves whine and shift, away from the blood mage swaying at your side, and you're glad. 

Stiles would be displeased if you ripped out the throats of his clients while he swayed under the weight of his magic. 

You test the wards, just a little and he watches you with sleepy eyes. 

Nothing happens, and you glance at him, curiously. 

Stiles smiles, "You're my guest, and my blood seals the wards. Of course they won't react to you." 

"Does that mean I could waltz into any of your warded territories?" 

Stiles barks a laugh, "Fuck no. The spell is for the pack, not for me or the plus ones I drag behind me--it'll twist as soon as we leave the territory." 

You tilt your head. Because Derek was genuinely distressed when he realized Stiles was taking you on one of his jobs and because Stiles still reeks of nerves and these wards--blood magic and strong--are nothing that would warrant either reaction. 

"What else is there?" you ask, and Stiles sighs. His eyes close and you step closer to him, taking his bag from his shoulder and waiting patiently. 

"It's not just wards," he says and you nod. "I--you'll see." 

"When?" you ask, curiously and Stiles gives you a sad smile. 

"Tonight, he promises, and starts making his way back to the car, leaving you to follow him. 

Deep in thought, the scent of his blood clinging to the forest air and the tree leaves--you follow him. 

~*~ 

The pack is gathered when you and Stiles return. He pauses and sheds his bloody shirt, and you study him, in tight jeans that ride low on his hips, blood caked in the creases of his fingers. Tattoos snake up and down his arms and torso, cut through with thin white scars, and yellow flickers around his fingertips. 

He’s breathtaking, and you ache to touch him, to draw him into you and keep him forever. 

You don’t. You stand behind and to the side, and follow him into the assembled pack. 

They’re waiting, eyes sharp on him as he strides into the midst of them. 

It’s a small pack--five in all, the Alpha and his mate,  his betas ranged around them. 

Too small for an emissary, you realize abruptly. 

Stiles pauses in front of them and his fingertips brighten for a moment, power washing out and around you and the pack. 

“You called me and I’m here,” he says. “Do you swear to abide by my edicts and judgment?” 

The alpha nods, and grudgingly, it’s echoed. 

“You know the price, if you break your word.” 

“We know, witch.” 

Stiles smiles, then, sharp and cold, and the Alpha takes a half step back. “Get on with it,” he says. 

~*~ 

It doesn’t make sense. 

Not  _ really _ . 

Not until it does. 

They’re a small pack--five in total. 

And you grew up in a pack that was large and carefully structured--a pack where roles like this were clear and defined. 

This pack is small. And you realize, listening to the alpha state his case, listening to the beta snapping and snarling back, watching Stiles between them--you realize suddenly, what he is. 

What this is. 

“You defied the alpha,” Stiles says, suddenly, interrupting the beta shouting at Hews. The beta flicks Stiles a mutinous look and Stiles’ lips compress into a thin, harsh line. “You defied your  _ alpha _ . And a child--one of the pack’s pups--was wounded. And you  _ still _ think you’re in the right.” 

The beta shifts, frowning. “You don’t understand. You aren’t  _ pack.” _

Stiles shrugs, a loose roll of his shoulders, and stretches onto his toes. “Just because I’m not formally aligned with a pack doesn’t mean I don’t understand, Jones. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” His gaze flicks to Hews. “What do you want done?” 

“The child will never walk again,” Hews says, his gaze burning as he watches Jones. 

Stiles sighs, and you make a noise, so low it’s lost in the noise as Jones snarls and darts forward, shifting, lunging at his alpha. 

Stiles stands between them. 

Yellow, sickly and familiar, flares through the clearing and the beta screams. 

It’s not a howl, not a roar--it’s a scream, terror and pain caught in his throat and torn in two. 

The light is burning your eyes, but you force them open, force yourself to  _ watch. _

This is what he wanted you to witness. 

This is why you’re here. Not those damn blood wards and long overdue conversations. 

Jones is writhing, and that sickly yellow light is wrapped around him where he screams in the dirt. Stiles is still, watching with strangely blank eyes, his lips moving soundlessly, and you can  _ feel _ it, like you felt in the wards, his magic rising around you like a wave, but this time is different, is sharp edged and cutting and you  _ want _ to look away. 

He draws a razor sharp blade and steps into the alpha’s space, flicking a thin line across his throat, and smearing the blood with his own into a sharp spiraling sigil. 

Jones screams go high pitched and frantic, and then the light washes away, leaving the clearing and the pack in dazzling darkness. 

You take a shuddering breath and Hews asks over the beta’s whimpers, “Is it done?” 

Stiles shakes his head. Steps toward the beta and kneels down. A quick flick of his fingers holds the beta in place, and Stiles--

You feel your stomach twist. He shatters the man’s legs. His ankles and knees, his shins. Jones loses consciousness the first time Stiles squeezes his hand into a fist, and you hear the bone and cartilage in his ankle  _ crunch _ , a sickening noise. 

He doesn’t stop, not until Jones legs are a mangled wreck and blood stains the knees of his jeans and his eyes are bleak and tired as he straightens. 

Hews shifts, and Stiles gives him a humorless smile. Slaps a bloody hand onto the sigil he’d drawn. 

You don’t feel it, really. It’s anti-climatic in that the only thing that happens is Hews groans and stumbles, his eyes brightening a little when he blinks at Stiles. 

“It’s done,” Stiles says, tired. He digs something out of his pocket, and tosses it to the alpha’s mate. “Use that on the kid. She’ll heal up in a few days.” 

“That--”

“My gift, for the child. Are you satisfied, Alpha?” Stiles says, formally and Alpha Hews nods, slowly. 

“If he comes for me or mine,” Stiles says, pointing at Jones, “I hold your pack responsible.” 

Hews pales, but nods again and Stiles turns to you. “Let’s go.”

And just like that--it's over. You stare at him, as he starts back toward the car.

He refuses to meet your gaze, despite your attempt to make him pause, just shrugs off your touch and plods, exhausted to the waiting car. 

“Stiles,” you say, before you start the car and he shakes his head. 

“Not yet,” he almost begs, tipping his head against the window. His fingers are trembling where they rest against his knees and you can smell, over the blood and dirt, the exhaustion that’s coming off him in waves. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” you murmur, turning on the car. The tension flows out of his shoulders and a tiny smile tilts up his lips before he drops off to sleep and you turn the car towards home. 


	22. Chapter 22

“We don't have to stop,” Stiles says when you pull into hotel parking lot. It's the first he's spoken in almost two hours, since you started driving.

“Darling, you're exhausted and your magic is drained and frankly, you smell like blood and shit.”

Stiles blinks at you and you let your smile go soft, almost gentle. “We're stopping.”

He nods and you open the door. “Stay here. I'll get a room.”

The receptionist doesn't ask questions, bored and distracted by her phone and happy enough to take your cash and sliding the internet password across the scuffed counter to you. You pocket it and nod your thanks.

You push him lightly into the bathroom when he stalls in the center of the room. “Shower, darling. I'll get food.” You push his overnight bag into his hands and ignore the way his fingers tremble as they clutch the bag, the way his eyes are pathetically grateful.

You wait until the shower comes on and then release a shuddering sigh.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

~*~

“You have questions,” Stiles says.

He’s nibbling on a curly fry, his gaze dark and steady where it’s trained on the table like it holds the secrets of the universe, and you reach out, fingers under his chin to draw his gaze up to yours.

“You’re afraid,” you say, softly.

He shrugs. “Most people see me like that don’t stick around.”

You wonder who hurt him. Who _left_ him. “Most people, sweetheart,” you say, your voice a low croon, “are fucking idiots.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and he laughs, a puff of uneven noise that makes you smile. “Eat your food. And tell me what you want to tell me.”

He does.

He tells you about Allison and his training with the voodoo priestess in New Orleans, tells you his history in his own words. You listen, patient and attentive, until his words finally slow.

“When did you start?”

He picks at his fries, long cold, and says, “Um. When I was in New Orleans? There was a pack, a tiny thing about four hours out, and they needed someone to mediate a internal dispute.” He shrugs. “I’m good at it. So many packs don’t have emissaries because they’re tiny and I just--I can help them.”

“And serving as the executioner?”

Stiles looks at you then, his eyes cool and blank. “I can. I can and I have the power that no one is going to come after me, not without serious consequences. And I'm good at it.”

You smile. “Very good, sweetheart.”

He visibly startles at that and you feel again that flare of fury. “Someone saw this in you,” you say abruptly. “And turned away. Who?”

“A alpha I met in Texas. He wanted me to serve his pack, and I--” Stiles pauses and then sighs. “I took him with me. And executed a beta for poisoning her alpha's mate.”

“He didn't approve,” you say, slowly and Stiles smiles.

“Scott was...very black and white. He thought what I did was evil. Thought I was. So I left. Came home and kept working and decided serving a pack wasn't in my cards.”

“Derek wouldn't have said that,” you say. You wonder, idly, if killing this Scott fellow wouldn't be too much. You could call it a courting gift. Stiles liked those.

“He's not my alpha,” Stiles says, gently. “He's my best friend and brother and I love him--but he's not my alpha.”

“You don’t have an alpha,” you say and he stares at you.

“I’ve never known an alpha willing to put up with what I am,” he says, finally. You arch an eyebrow and he shrugs. “Broken. Wrong. A killer. Take your pick. The nogitsune--it changed me. It’s _there_ in me, and it’s like--it broke something, when it took me. And I’ve lived with it broken long enough that I don’t want to be fixed.”

You smile, and nod. “Good.”

Stiles blinks at you and you smile, sharp and gentle all at once. “We’re both broken, darling. But broken doesn’t always mean ruined. Sometimes those things that heal after being broken are stronger for it.”

~*~

You watch him sleep.

The room is quiet, thick with emotions and words, and everything that’s lying unspoken between you, and you watch him, his breathing steady and even in his bed, head tipped up to the ceiling.

Like this, he doesn’t look dangerous or powerful. He just looks soft. Tired and young and you want to go to him, want to curl next to him and protect him from anything that might try to harm him.

It’s hard to remember that he isn’t yours to protect, when every sense is screaming otherwise. When he wears your clothes and your scent is warm against his skin, and you hold his secrets and fears.

You didn’t think that being his _friend_ would be this hard.

He shifts on the bed, twisting to his side, and you let out a slow breath. He’s so beautiful, all pale skin and dark hair, and those distracting as hell tattoos.

His eyes open, and you only just manage to contain the startle, the curse trapped behind your teeth.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs and you arch an eyebrow.

“I enjoy looking at things that please me,” you say and he smirks, this slow twist of his lips that hooks in your gut and _tugs._

“Tell me,” he says, and your heart stops. “Tell me what I look like. What you want.”

“Stiles,” you whisper.

He growls and you smell it, the arousal slowly filling the room. “ _Tell_ me.”

“You look--,” you break off, oddly unsure, but he’s staring at you with blatant hunger and challenge in his eyes, and you smile. Let a purr slide into your voice. “You look beautiful, darling. Spread out in my clothes, all pale and begging to be marked. You know packs, you _know_ what it does to a wolf, to see and smell someone in their clothing.”

Stiles smirks, knowing and pleased and you laugh. “Cocky little shit. What did you want, sweetheart? Want me to ignore what you said and _take_ what I want?”

His smirk is fading and he whines a little.

You shift, reach into the bag at your side and pluck out a small bottle of lube. Toss it to him. For a moment, he stills, his eyes flickering and you hold your breath, waiting.

Then he plucks it up and you listen, to the quiet snick of the cap and the soft slick sounds of his hand on his cock.

“ _Tell me,”_ he almost begs, and you fight back a wave of want so strong it makes you dizzy.

“So pretty, sweetheart. You look so good, like that. So pretty and needy. I’d make it so good for you. Take my time with you. Tease you.”

“ _No,”_ Stiles gasps, “no, please, Peter.”

You want to reach for your own cock, but you grit your teeth and focus on your boy, your beautiful boy, writhing now. “So needy, love. Need my fingers in you, while I suck you off, don’t you? You’d like it, like my mouth on you.” That earns him a punched out wounded sound. “And when you’d come from that, from me sucking your pretty cock, I’d eat your ass.”

Stiles groans at that and you smirk. “Like that, baby? You want me to open you up on my tongue, while you’re still fucked out and shaking. I’d go so slow, take my time. By the time I got my fingers in you, you’d be begging me for it.”

“Yes,” he breathes, this almost soundless thing that makes you twitch. “Please, please, alpha, _please.”_

“I’m going to fuck you hard,” you say, your mouth dry. You can see his hand moving, rapid under the sheet, the red tip of his cock just barely visible. “So hard you’ll feel it for days, baby, and every time, you’ll remember it’s because of me. Because I fucked you. Because you’re _mine.”_

Stiles shrieks, when he comes, almost a scream that twists into a drawn out moan, a noise so fucking intoxicating you almost come with him. His cock twitches and pearly come spills over the sheets and his knuckles and he just flops there, gasping, his hand stick and cock bare, and you--

You can’t look away.

Even if you wanted to, you _can’t._

“I’d lick you clean, sweetheart. I would take such good care of you,” you whisper and Stiles tilts his head at you, a smile sleepy and sweet in his eyes.

“I know, alpha.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is a bit of a mess right now, friends. I am trying to write through it but honestly, fic can't be my priority at the moment. I apologize in advance for any spotty or delayed updates on any of my WIPS.  
> That said--life is a bit of a mess right now. Asking for updates isn't going to make them come faster. Please don't. It's stressful and I have enough of that in the real world.


	23. Chapter 23

Stiles is nervous. You lie in bed, eyes closed, the sound of the world outside your little hotel room waking up and Stiles’ heartbeat too fast and loud and anxious in your ears.

The whole room still smells like sex and spunk and _Stiles,_ and you want to twist around, want to stare at him and promise that everything is ok, that everything will be ok.

He doesn’t want that though.

He _says_ he doesn’t want _you_ and as much as his actions are saying another story--you won’t push.

You respect him too much to push.

You slip out of bed, when the tension becomes too much, and say, “I’m getting a shower. Do you want to want me to get breakfast when I get out, or grab it on the road?”

Stiles blinks at you, eyes cautious and wary and you wait, patient. Endlessly patient for this beautiful boy of yours.

You’ve waited this long, and you think—you might just wait forever for him.

“On the road,” he says roughly and you nod, before you slip into the shower and leave him to his thoughts.

~*~

Stiles is fidgeting and anxious as you stop for coffee and bagels, and you ignore it, ignore him as you pay and drive away. He’ll talk when he’s ready. He always does.

It takes the first sip of coffee, and then, quiet and unsure, “Are you mad?”

“Why would I be?” you ask, calmly. You take the bit of bagel, smeared with cream cheese, he offers you and cock an eyebrow, waiting.

“I shouldn’t have let last night go that far,” he says, cheeks burning. You hum low in your throat, and shrug.

“You wanted something and I was able to provide it,” you say. “It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.”

“Doesn’t it?” he says, cryptically and you smirk. Sip your coffee and wait.

“I—it’s not fair, what I’m doing.”

You tilt your head, considering it. “No,” you allow. “But I’m not unaware of it, either. And if I’m not unaware and I allow you to do it—to use me last night and retreat this morning—then is it really unfair? I’m a willing participant.”

“It’s unfair to not let you move on,” Stiles mumbles, glaring at his coffee like it offends him. You smile and reach out, careful, ready to retreat if he tenses, but he stays pliant and sulky, and you squeeze his knee, shaking it just a little.

“I’m not really interested in moving on, sweetheart,” you say and he huffs. You steal the bite of bagel he’s prepared, and hum along, off-key and absent as you drive, and he finishes his breakfast.

It’s only when he _has_ finished, that he turns to look at you, twisting his whole body in his seat, amber eyes bright and curious as he watches you drive. He smells like soap and sex and you, and you think it’s the best thing you’ve ever smelt.

“Why are you so patient? What—what’s in it for you?”

You pause for a moment, weighing the question and your words and finally, finally say, “I waited almost eight years, to kill my family’s murderers. I waited nine to leverage what I knew against Deuc. And you—you are worth so much more than Deuc. I would wait decades for you, Stiles. And if I wait and all you can ever give me is your friendship?” You shrug and smile, like the idea of that doesn’t sting, doesn’t make your gums itch. “I will count myself lucky to have that.”

Stiles stares at you, and a tiny smile twists up his lips. “You’re a ridiculous sap, aren’t you?”

You shrug and grin. “Don’t tell Kira.”

~*~

You drop Stiles off, and it’s not strange or uncomfortable, the way he slides out with a  little wave and a tiny smirk you’re beginning to realize belongs to you. You’re exhausted enough the kiss he doesn’t give you doesn’t sting.

You drive home in a daze, stumble in and collapse in your bed with a low, heartfelt groan. You know Kira and Malia are nearby, can hear them moving, but your exhausted, the lack of sleep and tension of the past few days catching up in a sudden rush. Kira’s fingers comb through your hair and you groan, press into her thigh and she breathes a little laugh, petting you gently.

“Was it bad?”

“No,” you admit, and let your eyes flicker open. Stiles was beautiful, in that bed, coming apart under your eyes and words. “No, it was—good. I’m glad I went.”

“And your boy?”

Your quiet and her fingers stall, grip in your hair and shake, just a little. Her eyes are sharp, and a little bit angry when she asks, “Peter, are you sure about him?”

You think about it. About _him_ , beautiful and impatient and shining in your classroom a lifetime ago, innocent and untouched.

You think about him now, with his scars and dark magic, and the shadows in his eyes, and the bright smile he gives you and the furious loyalty he has for Derek and his pups.

You think of the way he looked, begging on his back, and the way that he looked, blood soaked and crackling with power.

“Yes,” you say, and your heartbeat is solid and steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short!! But I'm almost done and it felt like a good place to stop here. <3


	24. Chapter 24

Things quiet, after that. You busy yourself in your work and supervising the preparation of the house. Kira likes it here, has settled into the small town easily and Malia has even found a job with the park rangers.

They're happy, quiet and you are content. Once a week, Derek swings by and you run with him, something you haven't indulged in since before the fire.

Stiles texts and calls, often enough that you are never unaware of him and where he is, but not so often that you can forget the boundaries.

You have coffee, silent next to the Sheriff, twice a week.

You're happy, something you never really gave much thought or consideration. You have spent so many years existing, living for vengeance or power, or just _surviving_ —it’s strange to find none of those things driving you, and to find yourself happy despite it.

You remember all those years ago, the quiet routine of classes taught and papers graded and a nephew whose schedule governed your life, and how much pleasure you took in those small things.

In so many ways, you have come full circle, and you think it should grate—but it doesn’t.

It settles in your bones and makes the wolf in you rumble in content, and you breathe and embrace the simplicity of the life you’ve created.

~*~

“He told you, didn’t he?” Derek asks, almost a month after your trip with Stiles. You glance at him. Derek has stopped pressing you about Stiles, for the most part, content with whatever his friend is doing, and seemingly trusting you—finally—with him.

Although, maybe not quite.

“Told me what, nephew?” you ask, blandly and Derek scowls at you.

“He told you about Scott.”

Your lips tighten, and you think about the file on your laptop, the one so heavily encrypted even your kitsune hasn’t managed to crack it.

You are content and happy in your small chosen life, but you are still furious that anyone dared hurt _your_ boy.

“Yes,” you say, simply, and Derek’s brows crease unhappily. “Why does that bother you?”

“Because when someone upsets you, people end up dead,” Derek grumbles, “And as much as Scott hurt him—Stiles cares for him.”

You scowl, and Derek touches your arm. “I’m not saying don’t because I care about Scott,” he says, gently. “I’m saying don’t because I care about you and Stiles. And if you go after Scott, because of what he did to Stiles? You’ll ruin everything you’re trying to build.”

You wave a hand, a little bitterly. “There’s not a lot happening in my hopes and dreams department, Derek.”

He smiles, then, and it’s like seeing the boy you knew from the fire. Bright and mischievous and beautiful. “Do you really think so?”

~*~

“Uncle Creeper,” Erica sing songs, dropping next to you on Derek’s couch. You side-eye her, and nudge her gently away. She makes a disgruntled noise, but lets you move her. Erica’s given you more space, since your fledgling pack arrived in Beacon Hills. You wonder if it really bothered her, thinking of you without a pack. Even now, she’s closer to you than the rest of Derek’s puppies, and there are moments when she falls into your space like a comet, like she’s forgotten who she belongs to.

“Yes, darling?” you murmur, watching the yard. Stiles is laughing with Kira, Isaac and Derek wrestling not far beyond them, the sun hot and bright for the first time this year. You like this.

The packs mingled, the lines blurring. You always thought it would be harder, but Derek is remarkably easy to live in peace with.

“When are you going to find an emissary?”

A hush falls over the packs, and Stiles glances over, his eyes dark and curious and you wonder what he wants your answer to be.

You hold his gaze, and smile as you answer her. “I’m in no particular rush.”

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he gives you a tiny smile, a little approval that feeds the flickering hope in your gut.

“Do you have a pack tattoo?” Erica asks.

That pulls your gaze and you nod. Your tattoo was the first thing you did after Talia made you her Left. It sits low on your hip, small and unobtrusive, but marking you clearly as a Hale wolf. Deuc used to ask if you were ever going to change it—but the triskelion has been the sign of the Hales for centuries. You weren’t going to change that now.

“What does Derek use?” you ask, curious and Erica shifts to drag up her shirt, exposing the curve of her ribs. The familiar triad of spirals, but it’s cracked through, almost shattered.

You glance up at Derek, meet the almost defiant look in his eyes, and then back at Erica. She’s watching you with sharp eyes and you think—this girl will be alpha after your nephew.

She’s brilliant and hides it so beautifully.

“It’s lovely,” you say, and then, “Erica, darling. Have you considered you would make a _perfect_ Left Hand?”

She smiles at you, all teeth and pride while Boyd chokes on a hot dog.

~*~

The phone wakes you and you huff, fumbling for it. “Sweetheart, it’s far too early for anything that requires my eyes being open.”

“Alpha Hale, your presence is requested for mediation and negotiation.”

Stiles’ is formal and almost stiff, and you sit up, abruptly awake.

Not a social call, then. He sounded like that, before he ripped that wolf apart.

You suppress a shiver. “Of course, Emissary Stilinski.”

There’s a heartbeat of hesitation and then, “The Hale vault, Alpha. Noon.”

He hands up before you can respond and you sit on your bed, heart pounding, long enough that Kira creeps in. Her fox spirit is writhing around her, and you rumble as she settles in your arms, electricity stinging as she hugs you.

“Do we go with you?”

“They’re not going to hurt me, foxy,” you murmur because you trust that.

You trust them.

Derek and Stiles, both.

She hums. “I don’t like you going alone.”

You kiss her hair and don’t bother with reassurances.

You don’t have any good ones she doesn’t already know.

~*~

Stiles is waiting, when you get to the Hale vault. You’re not terribly surprised to see Derek waiting nearby.

What surprises you is the jar of claws sitting on a table near Stiles.

You slow, staring at them, and letting your gaze flick to Stiles.

He’s watching you, and as much as you’ve allowed yourself to believe you _know_ him—he’s a blank slate now.

You let out the breath caught in your throat and come to stand a few feet away.

“Those were in my personal vault,” you say and Stiles inclines his head.

“The territory alpha expressed concern,” Stiles murmurs and steps to one side. “Do you agree to mediation?”

You study them and then shrug. “I don’t care what you do with the damn things.”

Stiles’ gaze darts to you, shock in those big eyes and you feel a petty thrill to have surprised him. “Derek can’t use them without your help, Stiles. If you want them, you only had to ask.”

You let a note of the hurt simmering in your gut flare. “Surely you know that there is nothing I wouldn’t give you, darling.”

“This—Peter, this isn’t a present, this is _La Bete’s_ claws,” Stiles says, flailing, his formality dropping away in the face of your words.

You shrug. You know damn well what they are. “There’s no one on this earth I would be willing to sell them too,” you say, honestly. “And I am not so desperate for power that I need them. Take them, sweetheart.”

“Is _that_ enough, Stiles?” Derek asks, and your gaze snaps to him.

“Go away,” Stiles mumbles, and your eyes narrow, watching as your nephew huffs and retreats, ignoring you completely.

“Stiles?” you ask, and he shakes his head. Shoves the jar of claws on a shelf, and says, abruptly. “Walk with me.”

~*~

The high school is eerie after hours.

You never got used to it when you were a teacher, and you still aren’t.

But walking next to Stiles, you’re almost able to ignore it. He’s quiet, but walking quickly, and you allow him that, allow him to lead and set the pace because it’s what he’s always demanded, and you didn’t lie—

There is nothing you wouldn’t give this beautiful boy.

The classroom he leads you into is familiar.

You pause in the doorway and he turns to you, finally, eyes bright.

“Do you remember?”

You lick your lips. In all the time since you returned to Beacon Hills, Stiles has never brought up that afternoon when he kissed you. Not like this.

“Every second of it,” you whisper, hoarsely. Even when you wished you could forget, you’ve never been able to.

“Do you remember what you told me?”

You blink at him, the echo of your long ago words almost whispered between the two of you.

_If you still feel this way in ten years, come find me._

Your heart is pounding and your fingers tingle, and Stiles smiles at you, soft and cocky and so perfect it makes you _ache._

“It’s been ten years,” he whispers, and he’s close, he’s so close, you don’t remember him moving closer.

“Has it?” you ask, licking your lips. He tracks the movement.

“Mmm. What the hell do you think I was waiting for?” he teases.

Your eyes widen and you curse, but it’s cut off by the hungry kiss he gives you, pressing you into the wall, his hands in your hair, and it’s _demanding_ , all teeth and tongue and _taking_ and you—

You give yourself up to it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DIDN'T FORGET Y'ALL! Life is finally starting to slow down. Last chapter sometime this weekend! <3


	25. Chapter 25

You don’t know, later, how you got from that damn classroom, where Stiles kissed you for the first time, and where he came back to you now, ten goddamn years later—you aren’t sure how you got from there to your bed in the house you haven’t quite moved into.

You think it’s magic, or maybe that is only Stiles, pressed against you, hovering above you, his lips hungry and demanding, and his taste electric.

“You made us wait,” you pant, when he finally drags himself from your lips, dipping down to suck quickly fading bruises into your skin, and you fight the whine building in your throat.

You don’t  _ whine. _ Not even for Stiles.

“You made  _ me _ wait,” Stiles says, tartly, and you huff, remembering the intoxicatingly beautiful painfully young boy who kissed you in your classroom.

“Christ, Stiles,” you hiss, when he rolls his hips, and he groans.

“I hated it,” he confesses, presses the words into your skin like a secret. When you got me off on Lookout Pointe? I wanted so fucking badly to suck you off, wanted to make you come, and say fuck it.”

He shifts, and you whine because fuck dignity, Stiles is sitting in your lap, that lush ass moving against your cock and you want, god you  _ want. _

“And then in the hotel—I thought for sure you’d break. Wanted you to—but you just watched. Almost drove me out of my mind,” he pants, rolling his hips in these maddening little circles.

“How do you think I felt?” you growl, letting the wolf seep into your voice just to see his eyes go lazy and his scent bloom with hot lust. “I wanted to fucking lick you clean, and I just had to  _ watch.” _

He laughs, breathless and giddy and sits up, grinding against you. “Still wanna watch?” 

“What I want,” you say, syrup slow, claws pricking at his skin, “is to make you mine.” 

Stiles groans, shudders, dips down to kiss you, hot and wet and demanding. “Yes, please, Alpha.” 

~*~ 

He’s quieter than you expect, during sex. He’s pressed into the pillows and sheets, hands fisted there, while you slowly work him open. He’s tight, tighter than you’d have thought, and he whines, pressing back into it when you push a second finger in. There’s an edge of pain to it, that makes you slow and he lifts his head. “It’s been a while,” he gasps, and you almost purr at that, so fucking pleased you can’t help but surge up to kiss him, swallow the shout of pleasure when your fingers brush his prostate. 

“Good?” you murmur. 

“Be better if you’d fuck me,” he spits back, rocking on your fingers greedily. 

“Patience,” you croon, and he snarls at you. 

You laugh, and pull your fingers free, prompting him to moan, his voice cracking as he begs, “No, no, please--”

You press in slow, but steady and don’t stop until you’re buried in him, wrapped completely in his tight heat and gasping moans, in the minute tremble of his limbs and the way his hands convulsively clutch at the sheets. 

You’re in him, finally, finally, god and it feels--it feels. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, “Peter, fucking-- _ please.”  _

You drag him up, brace him against your chest and press a kiss to his neck as you hold him steady and rock into him, tiny thrusts that make him shiver and shake. 

“I’m not going to last,” you whisper, licking at the shell of his ear, already feeling the telltale heat building in your belly. It’s too much, and Stiles hands come up, cover yours on his belly, magic crackling along them, and it makes you jolt, shoves you harder into him and he groans, presses back for more. 

“Don’t, want it, want you, come, come for me, please, please,” he’s babbling, and you fight against the urge to close your eyes because you want to see this, want to see  _ him _ . 

“Next time,” you thrust hard and grunt as he moans. “Next time I’m going to take hours, baby. Take you apart slow,  until you’re fucking  _ begging _ for my cock.” 

His head bobbles as he nods frantically. “Yes, yes, next time.” 

It’s the promise of a next time, the heady knowledge that this-- _ Stiles-- _ is  _ yours _ that makes you come, makes you thrust into him once more and spill with a groan. You bite him as you come, high and claiming on his curved throat, and Stiles gasps, this almost silent noise that gets lost in the white rush of pleasure as he tightens around you, and comes, messily against your sheets. 

~*~ 

Stiles is beautiful in your bed. He’s come covered, littered with bruises and bitemarks, and he’s smiling at you, as you trace his tattoos. 

“You planned this,” you say, accusing. 

“You’re the one who said ten years, dumbass,” Stiles says, lightly. “I’ve been waiting for almost five fucking years.” 

You tilt your head at that, looking up at him with narrow eyes. 

Stiles shifts, and one of the tattoos on his side that you haven’t traced yet seems to blur and focus, and you register, distantly, that it was spelled. You’ve never seen this tattoo--you would remember, if you had. 

Your pack tattoo, delicately tattooed into his side with bright red ink. It’s old, long healed, and you look up at him, drag your gaze from the tattoo to his patient, smiling warm eyes. 

“What--I don’t understand,” you say, your voice shaking. Because you _ think _ you do, but you need to hear it.

Need him to say it. 

“You asked, why I’m not Derek’s emissary. I have a pack, Peter. I have an alpha. I always have. But you wanted to wait. So I waited. But I always knew where you were--and I always knew exactly what I wanted. I’m done waiting.” 

You crawl up his body, and press your fingers to his tattoo, the way he claimed you, and declared himself yours, before you ever came home. “You’re mine,” you breath, and he laughs. 

“Yes, alpha,” he murmurs, and you kiss him, heady with victory and possessive pleasure. 

“Darling,” you whisper. “We’re going to be so good together. Our pack is going to be perfect.” 

Stiles smiles, wicked and knowing and you grin at him and twist your fingers together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE END!! I hope y'all liked it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!  
> AND! I hope y'all will come back for the feral alpha/rogue emissary Steter fic I've been working on. It'll start posting sometime this week.   
> Come yell with (at?) me on [Tumblr](http://www.areiton.tumblr.com/)! 


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